My bloodshot eyes (so Yamba subsequently told me) projected from their sockets in the most terrifying manner, and a horrible indescribable longing possessed me to kill my faithful Bruno, in order to drink his blood.

My poor Bruno! As I write these humble lines, so lacking in literary grace, I fancy I can see him lying by my side in that glaring, illimitable wilderness, his poor, dry tongue lolling out, and his piteous brown eyes fixed upon me with an expression of mute appeal that added to my agony.

The only thing that kept him from collapsing altogether was the blood of some animal which Yamba might succeed in killing.
Gradually I grew weaker and weaker, and at last feeling the end was near, I crawled under the first tree I came across--never for a moment giving a thought as to its species,--and prepared to meet the death I now fervently desired.

Had Yamba, too, given up, these lines would never have been written.

Amazing to relate, she kept comparatively well and active, though without water; and in my most violent paroxysm she would pounce upon a lizard or a rat, and give me its warm blood to drink, while yet it lived.