Neither of us could walk.

The hut was like all in Kamrasi's country, with a perfect forest of thick poles to support the roof (I counted thirty-two); thus, although it was tolerably large, there was but little accommodation.
These poles we now found very convenient, as we were so weak that we could not rise from bed without lifting ourselves up by one of the supports.
We were very nearly dead, and our amusement was a childish conversation about the good things in England, and my idea of perfect happiness was an English beefsteak and a bottle of pale ale; for such a luxury I would most willingly have sold my birthright at that hungry moment.

We were perfect skeletons, and it was annoying to see how we suffered upon the bad fare, while our men apparently throve.

There were plenty of wild red peppers, and the men seemed to enjoy a mixture of porridge and legumes a la sauce piquante.

They were astonished at my falling away on this food, but they yielded to my argument when I suggested that a "lion would starve where a donkey grew fat." I must confess that this state of existence did not improve my temper, which, I fear, became nearly as bitter as the porridge.