At twenty-one he is in his glory. Then we must look for him in the _pulperías_, the bar-rooms of the Pampas, whither he repairs on Sundays and _fiestas_, to get drunk on _aguardiente_ or on Paraguay rum. There you may see him seated, listening open-mouthed to the _cantor_, or Gaucho troubadour, as he sings the marvellous deeds of some desert hero, persecuted, unfortunately, by the myrmidons of justice for the numerous _misfortunes_ (_Anglicé_, murders) upon his head,--or narrates in impassioned strain, to the accompaniment of his guitar, the circumstances of one in which he has borne a part himself,--or chants the frightful end of the Gaucho Attila, Quiroga, and the punishment that overtook his murderer, the daring Santos Perez. When the song is over, the cards are dealt. Seated upon a dried bull's-hide, each man with his unsheathed knife placed ostentatiously at his side, the jolly Gauchos commence their game. Suddenly Manuel exclaims, that Pedro or Estanislao or Antonio is playing false. Down fly the cards; up flash the blades; a ring is formed. Manuel, to tell the truth, has accused his friend Pedro only for the sake of a little sport; he has never _marked_ a man yet, and thinks it high time that that honor were attained. So the sparks fly from the flashing blades, and Pedro's nose has got another gash in it, and Manuel is bleeding in a dozen places, but he will not give in just yet. Unfortunate Gaucho! Pedro the next moment slips in a sticky pool of his own blood, and Manuel's knife is buried in his heart! "He is killed! Manuel has had a misfortune!" exclaim the ring; "fly, Manuel, fly!" In another minute, and just as the _vigilantes_ are throwing themselves upon their horses to pursue him, he has galloped out of sight.