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.
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