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Herds of deer, it is true, sometimes bounded past him, and partridges frequently whirred up before his footsteps; but his ammunition had been expended in the fight, and he had no means of slaying them. His wounds, irritated by the constant exertion in which lay the only hope of life, wore away his strength, and at intervals confused his reason.

Nathaniel Hawthorne, “Roger Malvin’s Burial” (1832).

[Tychy‘s companion to “Roger Malvin’s Burial” is here. Ed.]