Was it all this same starving forest to the wide world's end?
He dug for roots, and found some acrid bulbs and tubers, which blistered up his mouth; but he was hungry, and ate them; and dreaded as he ate.

Were they poisonous?
Next to it, Dillaway; so he hurried eagerly to dilute their griping juices with the mountain streams near which he slept: the water was at least kindly cooling to his hot throat; he drank huge draughts, and stayed his stomach.
Next morning, off again: why could he not catch and eat some of those half-tame antelopes?
Ha! He lay in wait hours--hours, near the torrent to which they came betimes to slake their thirst: but their beautiful keen eyes saw him askance--and when he rashly hoped to hunt one down afoot, they went like the wind for a minute--then turned to look at him afar off, mockingly--poor, panting, baffled creeper.
No; give it up--this savoury hope of venison; he must go despondently on and on; and he filled his belly with grass.

Must he really starve in this interminable wood! He dreamt that night of luxurious city feasts, the turtle, turbot, venison, and champagne; and then how miserably weak he woke.

But he must on wearily and lamely, for ever through this wood--objectless, except for life and liberty.

Oh, that he could meet some savage, and do him battle for the food he carried; or that a dead bird, or beast, or snake lay upon his path; or that one of those skipping kangaroos would but come within the reach of his oft-aimed hatchet! No: for all the birds and flowers, and the free wild woods, and hill, and dale, and liberty, he was starving--starving; so he browsed the grass as Nebuchadnezzar in his lunacy.