michelangelo painting

The girl emptied the stiffened mould into my hands and I devoured
it ravenously.
As the wet twilight deepened, I stopped in a solitary
bridle-path, which I had been pursuing an hour or more.
'My strength is quite failing me,' I said in a soliloquy. 'I feel I
cannot go much farther. Shall I be an outcast again this night?
While the rain descends so, must I lay my head on the cold, drenched
ground? I fear I cannot do otherwise: for who will receive me? But
it will be very dreadful, with this feeling of hunger, faintness,
chill, and this sense of desolation- this total prostration of hope.
In all likelihood, though, I should die before morning. And why cannot
I reconcile myself to the prospect of death? Why do I struggle to
retain a valueless life? Because I know, or believe, Mr. Rochester
is living: and then, to die of want and cold is a fate to which nature
cannot submit passively. Oh, Providence! sustain me a little longer!
Aid!- direct me!'
My glazed eye wandered over the dim and misty landscape. I saw I
had strayed far from the village: it was quite out of sight. The
very cultivation surrounding it had disappeared. I had, by
cross-ways and by-paths, once more drawn near the tract of moorland;