I knew it was my own doing, and no one else’s; but I was too miserable to repent. I felt I could drag myself but little farther; pretty soon, I must lie down and die on these wet mountains like a sheep or a fox, and my bones must whiten there like the bones of a beast. My head was light perhaps; but I began to love the prospect, I began to glory in the thought of such a death, alone in the desert, with the wild eagles besieging my last moments.

– David Balfour

That line my bones must whiten there like the bones of a beast cuts. Robert Louis Stevenson is a master of depicting suffering.

Stevenson, Robert Louis. Kidnapped. New York: Running Press, 1989. pp226