No swift merciful death for him.
He had read dreadful tales of the Bolsheviks' skill in torture, and now they all came back to him--stories of Chinese mercenaries, and men buried alive, and death by agonizing inches.

He felt suddenly very cold and sick, and hung in his bonds, for he had no strength in his limbs.

Then the pressure on this throat braced him, and also quickened his numb mind.

The liveliest terror ran like quicksilver through his veins.
He endured some moments of this anguish, till after many despairing clutches at his wits he managed to attain a measure of self-control.

He certainly wasn't going to allow himself to become mad.