He looked at me with the same surprised look--the same old look I thought, but he only rubbed his neck with one hand and crept up and sat in the big chair, and tried to look up into the Judge's face. He tried to meet the eyes of the master. They were fixed on him. He could not seem to meet the gaze. And there were the two men--one a wreck and a murderer, the other made out of the finest steel. One bowed his head with its mat of hair, the other looked down on him, pouring something on him out of his soul. "Well, I'm sober now," said Cranch, after a long time. "I know what you're thinking. I know it all. I know it all." "You are not human," whispered the Judge. Can you say that certain words call up magic? I do not know. But those words worked a miracle. In a second, like something bursting out of its shell, the Monty Cranch I had treasured in my heart tossed off the murderer, the drunkard, the worthless wretch who had been throttling him and holding him locked up somewhere in that worn and tired body, and came up to the surface like a drowning man struggling for life. "Human?" he said in a clearing voice. "Human? Am I human? My God! that is the curse of all of us--we're human. To be human is to be a man. To be human is to be born. To be human is to have the blood and bone and brain that you didn't make or choose. To be human is to be the son of another without choice. To be human is to be the yesterday of your blood and marked with a hundred yesterdays of others' evil." He jumped up. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot. "Am I responsible for what I am?" he roared. "Are any of us?" The Judge looked frightened, I thought. "Blood is blood," cried Monty, with the veins standing out on his forehead. "That's why I brought the baby here. I wanted to kill her. Blood is blood. There's mine in that chair--and it is me, and I am my father and he was his father, and there's no escape, do you hear? I wanted to kill her because I loved her, loved her, loved her!" He fell back in the chair and covered his face with his hand and wept like a child. I looked at the Judge and I could have believed he was a bronze statue. He never moved an eyelash. I could not see him breathe. He seemed a metal figure and he frightened me and the child frightened me, because it slept through it all so calm, so innocent--a little quiet thing. "Well, Chalmers," said the Judge at last, "what do you mean to do? You're going away. Are you going to leave your daughter here?" Monty's head was bowed over so his face did not show, but I saw him shiver just as if the Judge's words had blown across him with a draft as cold as ice. "I'm going to Idaho," he said. "I'm going away to-night. I've got to leave the baby. You know that. Put it in an institution and don't let the people know who its father was. Some day my blood will speak to it, Judge, but half my trouble was knowing what I was." "By inheritance," said the Judge. "By inheritance," said Monty.