“Even so, Jack, even so.  Well, after a time I quitted my vessel and returned to England; for I was actually tired of bloodshed, and I had collected a great deal of money.  On my arrival I inquired after Fitzgerald.  It appeared that his wife had heard the account of his execution; and, as her bonnet was found by the side of the mill-dam, it was supposed that she had destroyed herself.  Fitzgerald returned home, and was distracted at the intelligence.  I have always thought that she was dead; but, by what you say, Jack, I now doubt it.”

“And Fitzgerald, Spicer, what became of him?”

“I really cannot tell.  I heard that he had entered on board of a King’s ship, but not under his own name.  How far that was true or not I cannot say; but I have every reason to believe that such was the case.”

“And how came you on board of a man-of-war?”

“Why, that’s soon told, I spent my money, or lost it all in gambling, went out again, obtained command of a vessel, and did well for some time; but I was more tyrannical and absolute than ever.  I had shot five or six of my own men, when the crew mutinied, and put me and two others who had always supported me in an open boat, and left us to our fate.  We were picked up by a frigate going to the East Indies when we were in the last extremity.  And now, Jack, I believe you have my whole history.  I am tired now, and must go to sleep; but, Jack, I wish you to come to-morrow morning, for I have something to say to you of great importance.  Good-by, Jack; don’t forget.”

I promised Spicer that I would not fail, and quitted the hospital.  When I called again upon him, I found him very low and weak; he could not raise himself from his pillow.  “I feel that I am going now, Jack,” said he—­“going very fast—­I have not many hours to live; but, I thank Heaven, I am not in any pain.  A man who dies in agony cannot examine himself—­cannot survey the past with calmness or feel convinced of the greatness of his offenses.  I thank God for that; but, Jack, although I have committed many a foul and execrable murder, for which I am full of remorse—­although I feel how detestable has been my life—­I tell you candidly that, although those crimes may appear to others more heavy than the simple one of theft, to me the one that lies most heavy on my soul is the robbing of my poor mother, and my whole treatment of her.  Jack, will you do one favor to a dying man?—­and it must be done soon, or it will be too late.  Will you go to my poor mother, acquaint her with my being here, still alive, and that my hours are numbered, and beg for me forgiveness?  Obtain that for me, Jack—­bring that to me, and so may you receive forgiveness yourself!”

“I will, Spicer,” replied I, “I will go directly; and I have little fear but that I shall succeed.”

“Go then, Jack; don’t tarry, for my time is nearly come.”

I left the hospital immediately, and hastened to old Nanny’s.  I found her very busy sorting a lot of old bottles which she had just purchased.