But I was no longer a man of honour.  I was a wretched criminal swaying above a gulf of infamy in which I had seen others swallowed but had never dreamed of being engulfed myself.  I never thought of letting myself go—­not at this crisis—­not while my heart was warm with its resurgence into the old life.

And so I let pass this second opportunity for confession.  Afterwards, it was too late—­or seemed too late to my demoralised judgment.

My first real awakening to the extraordinary horrors of my position was when I realised that circumstances were likely to force me into presiding over the trial of the man Scoville.  This I felt to be beyond even my rapidly hardening conscience.  I made great efforts to evade it, but they all failed.  Then I feigned sickness, only to realise that my place would be taken by Judge Grosvenor, a notoriously prejudiced man.  If he sat, it would go hard with the prisoner, and I wanted the prisoner acquitted.  I had no grudge against John Scoville.  I was grateful to him.  By his own confession he was a thief, but he was no murderer, and his bad repute had stood me in good stead.  Attention had been so drawn to him by the circumstances in which the devil had entangled him, that it had never even glanced my way and now never would.  Of course, I wanted to save him, and if the only help I could now give him was to sit as judge upon his case, then would I sit as judge whatever mental torture it involved.

Sending for Mr. Black, I asked him pointblank whether in face of the circumstance that the victim of this murder was my best friend, he would not prefer to plead his case before Judge Grosvenor.  He answered no:  that he had more confidence in my equity even under these circumstances than in that of my able, but headstrong, colleague; and prayed me to get well.  He did not say that he expected me on this very account to show even more favour towards his client than I might otherwise have done, but I am sure that he meant it; and, taking his attitude as an omen, I obeyed his injunction and was soon well enough to take my seat upon the Bench.

No one will expect me to enlarge upon the sufferings of that time.  By some I was thought stoical; by others, a prey to such grief that only my duty as judge kept me to my task.  Neither opinion was true.  What men saw facing them from the Bench was an automaton wound up to do so much work each day.  The real Ostrander was not there, but stood, an unseen presence at the bar, undergoing trial side by side with John Scoville, for a crime to make angels weep and humanity hide its head:  hypocrisy!