spared because it was--because you thought it was to your
interest, your advantage to spare! I say, out of your own mouth you are
condemned."

James McMurrough had scarcely force to follow the pitiless reasoning by
which the elder man convicted him. But his conscience, his knowledge of
his own motives, filled the hiatus, and what his tongue did not own his
colourless face, his terrified eyes, confessed.

"You have fallen into our hands," Colonel John continued, grave as
fate. "Why should we not deal with you as you would have dealt with us?
No!"--the young man by a gesture had appealed to those on deck, to
their escape, to their impunity--"no! They may have consented to my
death; but as the judge condemns, or the soldier kills; you--you, for
your private profit and advantage. Nevertheless, I shall not deal so
with you. You can go as they are going--abroad, to return at a
convenient season, and I hope a wiser man. Or----"

"Or--what?" the young man cried hurriedly.

"Or you can stay here," Colonel John continued, "and we will treat the
past as if it had not been. But on a condition."

James's colour came back. "What'll you be wanting?" he muttered,
averting his gaze.

"You must swear that you will not pursue this foolish plan further.
That first."

"What can I be doing without _them_?" was the sullen answer.

"Very true," Colonel John rejoined. "But you must swear also, my
friend, that you will not attempt anything against me, nor be party to
anything."

"What'd I be doing?"

"Don't lie!" the Colonel replied, losing his temper for a single
instant. "You know what you have done, and therefore what you'd be
likely to do. I've no time to bandy words, and you know how you stand.
Swear on your hope of salvation to those two things, and you may stay.
Refuse, and I make myself safe by your absence. That is all I have to
say."

The young man had the sense to know that he was escaping lightly. The
times were rough, the district was lawless, he had embarked--how
foolishly he saw--on an enterprise too high for him. He was willing
enough to swear that he would not pursue that enterprise further. But
the second undertaking stuck in his gizzard. He hated Colonel John. For
the past wrong, for the past defeat, above all for the present
humiliation, ay, and for the very magnanimity which spared him, he, the
weak spirit, hated the strong with a furious, if timid malignity.

"I'm having no choice," he said, shrugging his s