No. No, no, no, no, no. He feels a panic rising in him, choking him; that was not what he meant, never was what he meant. And the tone in Sparrow's voice stings, stings more than he would like to admit. He rises from the table, almost knocking his chair over in his haste, feeling a sick sort of fear behind his eyes, pressing at his temples. Why does he care so much what Sparrow thinks of him, after all? Why should it matter?

Because he's a good man, that little voice in the back of his head pipes up again, sounding smug, And you want him to think of you as a good man as well, don't you?

'Sparrow,' he says, and his voice shakes, 'Jack. That is not what I meant- I did not hang him! I was a boy of fifteen; I had to watch him hang, I could do nothing- I stood and watched a good man dance with Jack Ketch. And I hate watching anyone hang, be he a pirate or no.'

He stopped, struck by a sudden inspiration. 'Sparrow; they call me Commodore Death, pirates and corsairs- do you know why?'