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.