“Don’t rely on making him drunk,” said Payne, “although that was Billy Blue’s advice. Drunk or sober, these Irishmen can always talk. I’ve given you the best hint.”

“Yes,” said Hornblower, concealing a shudder.

He went back into the condemned cell like a man condemned himself. McCool was sitting on the straw mattress Hornblower had had sent in, and the two ship’s corporals still had him under their observation.

“Here comes Jack Ketch,” said McCool with a smile that almost escaped appearing forced.

Hornblower plunged into the matter in hand; he could see no tactful way of approach.

“Tomorrow—” he said.

“Yes, tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow you are to make no speeches,” he said.

“None? No farewell to my countrymen?”

“No.”

“You are robbing a condemned man of his last privilege.”

“I have my orders,” said Hornblower.

“And you propose to enforce them?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask how?”

“I can stop your mouth with tow,” said Hornblower brutally.

McCool looked at the pale, strained face. “You do not appear to me to be the ideal executioner,” said McCool, and then a new idea seemed to strike him. “Supposing I were to save you that trouble?”

“How?”

“I could give you my parole to say nothing.”

Hornblower tried to conceal his doubts as to whether he could trust a fanatic about to die.

“Oh, you wouldn’t have to trust my bare word,” said McCool bitterly. “We can strike a bargain, if you will. You need not carry out your half unless I have already carried out mine.”

“A bargain?”

“Yes. Allow me to write to my widow. Promise me to send her the letter and my sea chest here — you can see it is of sentimental value — and I, on my side, promise to say no word from the time of leaving this place here until — until—” Even McCool faltered at that point. “Is that explicit enough?”