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"For some weeks I led a miserable life in the woods, endeavouring

to cure the wound which I had received. The ball had entered my

shoulder, and I knew not whether it had remained there or passed

through; at any rate I had no means of extracting it. My

sufferings were augmented also by the oppressive sense of the

injustice and ingratitude of their infliction. My daily vows rose

for revenge-a deep and deadly revenge, such as would alone

compensate for the outrages and anguish I had endured.

"After some weeks my wound healed, and I continued my journey.

The labours I endured were no longer to be alleviated by the

bright sun or gentle breezes of spring; all joy was but a mockery

which insulted my desolate state and made me feel more painfully

that I was not made for the enjoyment of pleasure.

"But my toils now drew near a close, and in two months from this

time I reached the environs of Geneva.