Most things that a man can do I'm up to, and that's all about it.

As I lift myself now I can feel the muscle swell on my arm like a cricket ball, in spite of the--well, in spite of everything.
The morning sun comes shining through the window bars; and ever since he was up have I been cursing the daylight, cursing myself, and them that brought me into the world.

Did I curse mother, and the hour I was born into this miserable life?
Why should I curse the day?
Why do I lie here, groaning; yes, crying like a child, and beating my head against the stone floor?
I am not mad, though I am shut up in a cell.No.Better for me if I was.

But it's all up now; there's no get away this time; and I, Dick Marston, as strong as a bullock, as active as a rock-wallaby, chock-full of life and spirits and health, have been tried for bush-ranging--robbery under arms they call it--and though the blood runs through my veins like the water in the mountain creeks, and every bit of bone and sinew is as sound as the day I was born, I must die on the gallows this day month.
Die--die--yes, die; be strung up like a dog, as they say.

I'm blessed if ever I did know of a dog being hanged, though, if it comes to that, a shot or a bait generally makes an end of 'em in this country.