Feliz aquel que junto a tí suspira, Que el dulce nectar de tu risa bebe. Que a demandarte compasión se atreve, Y blandamente palpitar te mira.[1] Suddenly don Zeno became pale as death, a nervous trembling agitated his whole body, and two burning tears burst from his eyes; however, he kept the most profound silence, but the young man perceiving the effect produced upon their guest by the verses which he was singing, immediately struck up a joyous jarana, which soon brought back the smile on the pale lips of the gaucho. [1] Happy he who sighs near thee, who drinks the sweet nectar of thy smile, who dares to ask pity of thee, and sees thee gently agitated. CHAPTER III. THE RANCHO. On the morrow, at the rising of the sun I was up, but early as I had been, my companion was before me: his place near me was empty. 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." "Do not let us speak of that. I have done what I could; unfortunately, the reception has been poor enough. Times are hard. Only four or five years ago it would have been different; but from him who does all he can, people cannot ask more."