Not that he had any conviction about it, any notion of the possible ending on that painful road.

It was an indistinct feeling, a threat of suffering like the confused warning of coming disease, an inarticulate monition of evil made up of fear and pleasure, of resignation and of revolt.

He was ashamed of his state of mind.

After all, what was he afraid of?
Were those scruples?
Why that hesitation to think, to speak of what he intended doing?
Scruples were for imbeciles.
His clear duty was to make himself happy.

Did he ever take an oath of fidelity to Lingard?
No.