I went out hoping to meet him, but could not see him.
The country around me was deserted and calm as on the day of the creation; the dogs, vigilant sentinels, who during the night had watched over our repose, rose and came to caress me with joyful growls. The aspect of the pampa[1] is the most picturesque at the rising of the sun. A profound silence reigns over the desert; it would seem that nature gathers and resumes her powers at the dawn of the day which is commencing. The fresh morning breeze flutters gently through the tall grass, which it bends by its light and cadenced movements. Here and there the venados raise their timid heads, and throw around them frightened glances. The birds, crouched for warmth under the foliage, prelude with some timorous notes their morning hymn. On the little heaps of sand formed by the holes of the viscachas, little belated owls, stationary as sentinels, and half-asleep, winked their eyes in the rays of the morning star, sinking their round heads in the feathers of their necks; whilst, high up in the air the urubus and the caracaras wheel in large circles, balancing themselves carelessly at their ease on their wings, and seeking the prey on which they will fall with the rapidity of a thunderbolt.
The pampa at this moment resembles a sea with its green and calm waters, the shores of which are hidden behind the horizon.
I sat down on a green mound; while smoking a cigarette I fell into reflection, and was soon completely absorbed by my thoughts.
I was suddenly aroused, however, by a voice which burst upon me in a tone of good humour. I turned round sharply.
Don Torribio was near me.
"Hola, caballero!" he said, "The pampa is beautiful at the rising of the sun, is it not?"
"It is indeed," I answered, without knowing exactly what I said.
"Have you passed a good night?"
"Excellent; thanks to your generous hospitality."