“So, Jim,” said the doctor, sadly, “here you are. As you have brewed, so shall you drink, my boy. Heaven knows I cannot find it in my heart to blame you; but this much I will say, be it kind or unkind: when Captain Smollett was well you dared not have gone off, and when he was ill, and couldn’t help it by George, it was downright cowardly!”

I will own that I here began to weep. “Doctor,” I said, “you might spare me. I have blamed myself enough; my life’s forfeit anyway, and I should have been dead now if Silver hadn’t stood for me; and, doctor, believe this, I can die⁠—and I dare say I deserve it⁠—but what I fear is torture. If they come to torture me⁠—”

“Jim,” the doctor interrupted, and his voice was quite changed, “Jim, I can’t have this. Whip over, and we’ll run for it.”

“Doctor,” said I, “I passed my word.”