Jack, who had something of the Spartan in his composition, endured his martyrdom without flinching; and carried his stoical indifference so far, as even to make a mocking grimace in Sharples's face, while that amiable functionary thrust Thames into the recess beside him. Once she had asked him: "Are you my father?" He had answered: "I am. Sir Rowland laid his hand upon his sword. He glanced at it, and saw the bloodied blade. ‘Because you are a bête, and a pig, and imbecile. The doctor would never betray him.
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