"Whig" was the best name he had to give me.

"Here," he would say, "here's a dub for ye to jump, my Whiggie! I ken you're a fine jumper!" And so on; all the time with a gibing voice and face.
I knew it was my own doing, and no one else's; but I was too miserable to repent.

I felt I could drag myself but little farther; pretty soon, I must lie down and die on these wet mountains like a sheep or a fox, and my bones must whiten there like the bones of a beast.

My head was light perhaps; but I began to love the prospect, I began to glory in the thought of such a death, alone in the desert, with the wild eagles besieging my last moments.

Alan would repent then, I thought; he would remember, when I was dead, how much he owed me, and the remembrance would be torture.