"Ha--ha!" said he, "clever Jack Dillaway of Broker's alley isn't done up yet: no--no, trust him for taking care of number one; now then for the desert; with these four huge eggs and my trusty hatchet, deuce take it, but I'll manage somehow!" Thus, deriving comfort from his bold hard heart, he launched unhesitatingly upon that sea of sand: with aching toil through the loose hot soil he ploughed his weary way, footsore, for leagues--leagues--lengthened leagues; yellow sand all round, before, and on either hand, as far as eye can stretch, and behind and already in the distance that terrible forest of starvation.

But what, then, is the name of this burnt plain, unwatered by one liquid drop, unvisited even by dews in the cold dry night?
Have you not yet found a heart, man, to thank Heaven for that kind supply of recreative nourishment, sweet as infant's food, the rich delicious yolk, which bears up still your halting steps across this world of sand?
No heart--no heart of flesh--but a stone--a cold stone, and hard as yonder rocky hillock.
He climbed it for a view--and what a view! a panorama of perfect desolation, a continent of vegetable death.

His spirit almost failed within him; but he must on--on, or perish where he stood.

Taking no count of time, and heedless as to whither he might wander, so it be not back again along that awful track of liberty he longed for, he crept on by little and little, often resting, often dropping for fatigue, night and day--day and night: he had made his last meal; he laid him down to die--and already the premonitory falcon flapped him with its heavy wing.
Ha! what are all those carrion fowls congregated there for?
Are they battening on some dead carcase?
O, hope--hope! there is the smell of food upon the wind: up, man, up--battle with those birds, drive them away, hew down that fierce white eagle with your axe; what right have they to precious food, when man, their monarch, starves?
So, the poor emaciated culprit seized their putrid prey, and the scared fowls hovered but a little space above, waiting instinctively for this new victim: they had not left him much--it was a feast of remnants--pickings from the skeleton of some small creature that had perished in the desert--a wombat, probably, starved upon its travels; but a royal feast it was to that famishing wretch: and, gathering up the remainder of those priceless morsels, which he saved for some more fearful future, again he crept upon his way.

Still the same, night and day--day and night--for he could only travel a league a-day: and at length, a shadowy line between the sand and sky--far, far off, but circling the horizon as a bow of hope.