The news of Miss Judy's illness reached the judge as he was leaving the tavern for the opening of court. It was then too late for him to go at once in person to ask how she was, as he wished to do, and as he otherwise would have done. But he nevertheless turned back and went to his own room, long enough to write her a few hurried lines telling of his deep and tender concern.

And when this was written he was not satisfied. He sat hesitating for a moment, listening absently to the ringing of the court-house bell. Then, again taking up his pen, he went on to beg her not to give another troubled thought to the note or to the suit. He wrote that possibly the case might come for trial on that very day,—writing this as lovingly, as tenderly, as he could have written to his mother whom he had never known,—and going on to tell her that he wished her to know, only for her own peace of mind, that the payment of the note, both principal and interest, had already been arranged for, and would be made, if possible, before the opening of court. This was, so he wrote, to be quite regardless of the decision in the case, and solely to set her mind wholly at rest. After writing thus far he still sat thinking, feeling as if he had not yet said just what he meant to say, as if he had not been quite tender enough of the little lady's tender sensibilities. With his pen poised he looked out at the passing wagons and at the crowd gathering around the court-house, taking no heed of anything save the anxiety in his mind. At last a sudden, gentle smile illuminated his grave, pale face, as he added another paragraph:—

"Of course you understand, my dear little friend, that this money is advanced as a loan which you may repay at your convenience. You will also understand, I am sure, that I should not have taken the liberty of thus settling your private business without your consent, had I not heard of your illness and feared that you were not able to attend to it yourself. As soon as you are well enough you may scold me as much as you like for my presumption. It is, however, to be between ourselves; no one else must know."

He gave the letter to a negro boy and watched him fly like an arrow through the clouds of dust which were hanging heavy over the big road. He saw the child's hazardous dash between the great wagons, close to the high, grating wheels, under the huge, clanking trace-chains, almost under the beating iron hoofs. For this quiet morning of late summer chanced to be the one out of the whole year when the grass-grown solitude of Oldfield's single street became a thronged, clamorous, confused thoroughfare.

But the judge cared nothing for all this unwonted turmoil, beyond the safe, swift passage of the messenger bearing his letter. He did not know that Miss Judy was too ill to read it, and he was longing to have it reach her before she could hear any troubling news through the possible coming up of the case. Turning slowly toward the court-house, he was thinking solely of her, and the thought of her illness deepened the sorrow for the pain of the world which always lay heavy on his sad heart. As he thought of this gentle soul, whose whole life had been loving sacrifice for others, and whose very life might now be demanded for the wrong-doing of others, the sorrowful mystery of living perplexed him more sorely than ever. As he thought of this other innocent woman suffering, it might be even unto death, through a madman's causeless hatred of himself—even his great faith, measured by his judicial mind, seemed for the moment to shrink.

Feeling his danger, he tried to wrench his thoughts away and to turn them from this morbid brooding. He strove so strenuously that he presently was able to fix his attention on the matters of merely human law and justice which began to come before him, as soon as he had taken his place upon the bench. Thorough training and long practice helped him so that he was gradually able to bring his eminently legal mind to bear upon the wearying routine of the docket with the unerring precision of some marvellous machine.

His fine face was still pale, but there was nothing unusual in its paleness, and it now grew calm and collected under the very intensity of his spirit's stress. For the farthest spiritual extremity lies cold and still beyond all human passion, as the supreme summit of perpetual ice rises cold and still above all human life. There was, therefore, no change in his attitude of mind or body when he suddenly saw the dark, threatening visage and the wild, bloodshot eyes of the Spaniard confronting him through the crowded gloom of the heated court-room. He was accustomed to the sight; it had faced him at every term of his court. There was consequently no disturbance, not the slightest uneasiness in the abrupt turning away of his eyes. His sole feeling was one of unutterable weariness of the struggle of living, of utter sickness of mind and heart and soul. He was so weary that he did not even fear himself, so utterly weary that he was—for the moment—no longer afraid even of the unexpected escape of his own fierce temper, always so hardly held in leash. He no longer dreaded the sudden breaking of the steel bars of his own stern self-control, the greatest danger that he had ever found to fear.

When the case against the estate of Major John Bramwell came to trial in its due turn, during the dragging hours of the long, hot afternoon, the judge weighed that also, as he had weighed all which had come before, and as he intended weighing all which were to come after—coolly, calmly, scrupulously—according to the letter of the law. Having so weighed it, and found it wanting, he dismissed the complaint on account of time limitation, and assigned the costs to the plaintiff, as he would have done in any similar case under like circumstances. Then he passed composedly to the deliberate consideration of further business, and the hot, heavy hours droned on.

Through it all he had scarcely glanced at Alvarado; in truth he had scarcely thought of him save as a party to one of the many suits before the court. He had had no opportunity to learn that the Spaniard had refused to accept the money, offered early in the day, in payment of the note. He did not observe Alvarado's leaving the court-room after the decision. He did not know that the man was waiting on the steps when he himself hastened out after the adjournment of court.

Thus it was that the long-coming crisis found him at last wholly unprepared. Thus it was that the blow from the heavy handle of the Spaniard's riding-whip struck him without warning. It sent him, stunned and reeling, down the steps. His hand went out, through blind instinct, and caught one of the portico pillars, so that he did not fall quite to the earth; and he was on his feet instantly, springing to his great height, to his tremendous power—towering above the surrounding crowd. As he arose, he made one furious leap, like the magnificent bound of a wounded lion, straight at the Spaniard, who stood—still as a statue—braced for the encounter.

A cry of terror had gone up from the crowd when the blow had been struck. Many restraining arms were now raised, as the white fury flashed over the judge's pale face, as rare and deadly lightning glares from the paleness of a winter sky. And then this appalling danger-signal faded even as it flashed forth. The cry of the crowd was suddenly hushed, its swaying was suddenly stilled. There now followed a strange pause of strained waiting!

Every man's eyes were on the judge. No man gave a glance to the Spaniard; every man knew what he meant to do. But the judge—it was on his noble figure and on his fine face that every man's eyes were riveted. Every man knew his horror of violence of any description, and his abhorrence of the taking of human life under any provocation. Yet every man, thus looking on, held it to be impossible for any man to suffer the degradation which this man had just suffered, without resistance. For in every man's eyes this was, with but one exception, the most binding of all the many traditions for the shedding of blood.

No man might suffer it, and ever hope to hold up his head among his fellow-men, without killing, or at least trying to kill, the man who had so degraded him. Breathless, indeed, was this instant's terrible waiting! The bloodthirsty wild beast, which lurks forgotten in most men's hearts, now leaped up in its secret lair, scenting blood, and stared fiercely out of the fierce eyes fixed on the judge. And not one of all these men—all so feeling, all so believing—could credit the evidence of his own senses when he saw this man, who stood so high above other men in body, in mind, and in reputation, now stand still, making no farther advance. Even less could they believe what their own eyes beheld, when they then saw him draw back, slowly and silently, from the nearness to the Spaniard to which that single uncontrollable bound had carried him. And so the crowd stood—stricken dumb and motionless-for a breath's space! Then—suddenly—every upraised arm came down as the judge's powerful arms fell at his side. Calmly, almost gently, he turned, and, raising his majestic form to its fullest height, and lifting his noble head to its highest level, he rested his calm, clear gaze on the murderous passion of the Spaniard's eyes. It was a long, strange look. It was a look which filled every man who saw it with a feeling of awe; even though not one, of all those who were looking on, could comprehend its meaning. It was a look such as not many are permitted to try to comprehend: it was a look such as no mortal men can ever have seen, save it may have been the few who stood close to the foot of the Cross.

In his own room at the tavern, late on that afternoon, the judge felt more alone than ever before through all his lonely life. He had already begun to suffer the mental reaction which nearly always follows great spiritual exaltation. He was even now thinking of what he had done—what he had not done—as if he were another person. He most distinctly saw its inevitable, far-reaching, and never-ending consequences. He realized that he, no more—perhaps even less—than any other man, could expect to evade them or hope to live them down. The very fact of his prominence could but make the matter more widely known and more disastrous in its results. The high office which he held—though it personified the law—would only make his breaking of this unwritten law all the more unpardonable. Suddenly he felt completely overwhelmed by the weariness of life, which had so weighed upon him through the day. In terrifying fear of himself he sprang to the open window and hurriedly leaned out, finding a measure of safety in the mere presence of the people passing on their way home from court. But some of them looked up, and stared at him curiously, so that he drew back. He had not closed the door of his room, and he was glad to hear footsteps in the passage, although he merely turned his head without speaking when the man, to whom he had given the money for the payment of the note, came in quietly, and laid it on the table within reach of his hand. Nor did the man speak,—there was nothing for any one to say,—but he stood for a moment hesitatingly, irresolutely; and then, still without speaking, he drew a pistol from his pocket, and laid it on the table beside the money.

When he was gone the judge got up and closed the door, and took the pistol in his hands, which were beginning to tremble now as they had never trembled before. Hastily he put the temptation down, and walked to the door and opened it again: taking swift, aimless turns up and down the room. At the sound of footsteps again passing along the passage, he called to a servant and asked for some water. The presence of any one would protect him against himself. Turning this way and that, aimlessly, he turned once more to the window, and threw it higher and pushed the curtain further back—as far this time as it would go. He then leaned out again, caring nothing now for the curious gaze of the passers-by, caring only that he might escape this overpowering, horrifying, paralyzing fear of himself.

The highway was heavily overhung with clouds of dust as the huge wagons with their mighty teams, which had passed in the morning, now rumbled homeward, returning from the journey to the river. Through the dark haze the judge could see only the proud face of his wife, and it seemed to his fevered fancy that her cool smile was cooler than ever with something very like scorn. It seemed to his sick imagination that he could see again the half-contemptuous shrug of her graceful shoulders, the half-scornful lift of her handsome brows, with which she always greeted any disregard of the established order. Above the rude sounds of the iron-bound wheels, the clanking chains, and the beating hoofs, he heard the music of the light laugh with which she had always mocked his own deviations. She had called him an idealist, a dreamer—even a fanatic—half in jest, half in earnest. But this was different. She would not laugh at this, which must alter her position in the world as well as his own. And then, as he thought of this, a doubt for the first time assailed him, piercing his breast like a poisoned spear. Had he the right—toward her? She had married a man who stood fair before all men. Again, in the anguish of this last thought, this new dread, this worst doubt, the deadly fear of himself rushed over him. Weakened and sickened in body by the anguish of mind which was rending him, he dared not turn his head toward the table where the temptation lay within such easy reach of his shaking hand.

Leaning as far as possible the other way, he caught sight of the old Frenchman, toiling along the big road on crutches, threading a passage through its unusual turmoil with difficulty and pain. Then the wind tossed the deep dust and sent it swirling upward in thick, dark clouds, shutting the highway from the judge's unseeing sight. He had hardly been conscious of seeing Monsieur Beauchamp; everything was passing in a fearful dream. He scarcely heard a new, strange roar which now suddenly arose above the voices of the passing people, above the rumble, the rattle, and clash of the passing wagons and the heavy beating of many great hoofs. But he heard more consciously as this came nearer and louder, like the rapid, roaring approach of a sudden terrible storm. He saw clearly enough when the cause of the violent sounds burst over the highest hilltop, and dashed down its side—as a gigantic wave is driven by a hurricane,—a huge wagon thundering behind six mighty, maddened, runaway horses. Like some monster missile it was hurled this way and that, crashing terrifically from side to side of the big road; and threatening the whole highway with destruction. Like death-dealing thunder-bolts the flying iron hoofs gave little time to flee for safety, but the danger appeared to give wings to every living creature, brute and human alike. The old Frenchman alone stood still, paralyzed by fright and unable to move. His crutches dropped from his powerless grasp, so that he could no longer even stand, and—tottering and shrieking for help—he fell helpless, prone upon the highway straight in the track of that huge, blurred, black bulk of Force which was being whirled toward him with the speed of a cyclone by the storm-flight of those frenzied horses.

And then the judge's vision magically cleared, and he saw the little Frenchman—his weakness, his utter helplessness—as if by a lightning flash. The judge, starting up with a leap, was down the stairs and running along the big road almost as soon as he realized what it was that he was going to meet. He was such a powerful man, so quick and strong of mind and body, so prompt, so able, so fearless in the doing of everything that he thought right! Ah, the pity of it all!

He could not see the old man upon first reaching the highway. Blinding dust-clouds hung more heavily than ever over the wild, furious confusion of the big road. The people, terror-mad, were fleeing, each one thinking only of his own peril. The drivers, panic-stricken, whirled the clashing wagons hither and thither, utterly bewildered. The horses, helpless and terrified, plunged amid the clanking of the entangled trace-chains. The dense clouds of smothering dust hung like a blinding pall. But the judge knew where the little Frenchman was lying and sprang straight toward him and found him in time,—barely in time to bend down, to lift him in his mighty arms and toss him like a feather far beyond danger. But there was no more time,—not an instant,—and then the judge himself went down as a church spire falls before a tempest,—down into the dust of the earth under the awful, crushing hoofs of the maddened horses, down under the cruel, cutting tires of those merciless wheels,—down to death, giving his life for the humblest of his fellow-creatures.