Even in self-protection we would not kill him, we of the

To shiver, and up from feet the cold to mount

Inch after inch: and toward the supreme hour

At last the pinched nostrils, nose's tip

A very point, eyes sunken, temples hollow,

Skin cold and hard, the shuddering grimace,

The pulled and puffy flesh above the brows!-

O not long after would their frames lie prone

In rigid death. And by about the eighth