The life of a hunter in the woods was free, but produced nothing.
The furs he sold simply maintained him; it was barter for existence, not profit.

The shepherds on the hills roamed in comparative freedom, but they had no wealth except of sheep.

He could not start as a merchant without money; he could not enclose an estate and build a house or castle fit for the nuptials of a noble's daughter without money, or that personal influence which answers the same purpose; he could not even hope to succeed to the hereditary estate, so deeply was it encumbered; they might, indeed, at any time be turned forth.
Slowly the iron entered into his soul.

This hopelessness, helplessness, embittered every moment.

His love increasing with the passage of time rendered his position hateful in the extreme.