" Jack, meanwhile, was carried to Newgate. For the love of Heaven, Jack, don't move!—Don't alter a muscle, if you can help it. The Protestant Flagellant, who whipped his soul rather than his body, who made self-denial the rack and the boot, who believed that on Sunday it was sacrilegious to smile, blasphemous to laugh! Spurlock had gone back spiritually three hundred years. The fibre of his soul had to be tested, queerly, to make him worthy of you. ‘Point it at me. So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity. Any man might have endeavoured to protect himself in this fashion, a man with no one to care, with an unnameable terror at the thought (as if it mattered!) of being buried in alien earth, far from the familiar places he loved. ‘Shocked you, have I? We weren’t mealy-mouthed in my day, my boy.
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