"I am far from complaining--on the contrary. But you are returning from a walk, it seems to me?" "Yes, I have been to give an eye to my oxen which are at pasture. But," added he, raising his eyes to the sky and mentally calculating the height of the sun, "it is time to breakfast. Will you return with me?" "I do not ask anything better; only I do not see my companion. It appears to me that it would ill become me not to wait breakfast for him." "If that is all that hinders you," said the gaucho, laughing, "you can eat without fear." "He is about to return?" I asked. "On the contrary, he will not return." "How is that?" I cried with surprise, mingled with uneasiness; "He is gone away?" "Already more than three hours ago. But," he added, "we shall see him again soon; he wished to speak to you about it before mounting his horse; but, on reflecting on it, you appeared so fatigued yesterday evening that he preferred to allow you to sleep--sleep is so good." "He will return without doubt, soon?" "I cannot say so exactly. In any case he will not long delay; we shall see him again this evening or tomorrow." "The devil! What am I to do, I who reckoned on him?" "How is that?" "Why, to tell me the route I ought to take." "If that is all, there is no reason why you should torment yourself; he has requested me to beg you not to quit the rancho before his return." "But I fear to discommode you. You are not rich, as you yourself have told me." "Señor," answered the gaucho, with dignity, "strangers are envoys from God. Even if it might please you to live a month in my humble rancho, I should be happy and proud of your presence in my family. Do not say any more, I beg you." What more could I object? Nothing. I resigned myself, therefore, to wait until the return of don Zeno. The breakfast was pleasant enough; the ladies exerted themselves to bring out my good humour, by loading me with cares and attentions. Immediately after the meal, as don Torribio prepared to mount his horse, I asked to accompany him. He agreed; I saddled my horse and we set out at a gallop across the pampa. My design in accompanying the gaucho was not to have an agreeable ride, but to take advantage of our being together alone, to lead the conversation to my companion, whom he appeared to know very well, so as to obtain certain information which would enable me to form an opinion on that singular man. But all my efforts were vain, all my finesse absolutely lost; the gaucho knew nothing, or, which is more probable, did not wish to tell me anything. The man who was so communicative, and so inclined to relate, often in a too prolix fashion, his own affairs, preserved a discretion proof against everything, and a reticence which made me despair when I turned the conversation to don Zeno Cabral. He answered me only by monosyllables, or by the exclamation, "¿Quién sabe?" (Who knows?).