He laughed aloud, a half-mad laugh. His brain reeled at what his mother had told him. Even yet he did not realise fully the issues of her momentous communication. That would come later! The thing which appealed to him now was that he had found his father, and his father was the man who was sitting in judgment on him! Never did he hate him as he did at that moment. This man had deceived his mother, blackened her life, allowed her to remain in loneliness, misery and disgrace. Because of him a shadow had rested upon his own life, a shadow which nothing had been able to lift. Yes, he hated him. He thought of the cross-examination that day. This man at the beginning of the trial had pretended to act as his friend, had advised him to accept counsel, had told him that he might defend himself and ask questions. And, utilising the power which he possessed as a judge, had himself asked the witnesses questions, on the pretence that he was trying to do the prisoner justice! And what questions! To his excited and poisoned mind he had simply supplied the deficiencies of the counsel for the prosecution. Every word he had uttered was only meant as another nail in his scaffold. He was glad he had said what he had said now. He had made both jury and court feel that the judge was unjust because of his prejudice against him. But that was nothing to what he could do, nothing to what he would do. Why, supposing on the next day--yes, and he could do it, too--supposing on the next day of the trial he, the prisoner, were to proclaim before the court, before the twelve jurymen, before the eager counsel, before the gaping, excited crowd, that this Judge Bolitho, this man who assumed an immaculate air, was one of the most damnable villains that ever crawled upon the earth, that this man, who looked so virtuous and spoke of the majesty of justice, had foully deceived a poor, ignorant, innocent girl, dragged her name in the mire, left her to die, as far as he was concerned, in disgrace! He, the judge, had done this, and all the world should know it. Yes, all the world. This man should be pilloried before all England, and every healthy, clean-minded man in the nation would shudder at his name. Yes, he saw his revenge now. "No, mother, do not speak yet," he cried, as he stamped around the cell. "Do not speak yet. I've got it!" He hugged himself with delight, for at that moment Paul Stepaside was possessed of the devil. He was filled with unholy joy. "It makes one believe, after all, that there's a God in the heaven. 'Vengeance is Mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.' Yes, I've heard a man read that in the old chapel down at St. Mabyn, in Cornwall. 'Vengeance is Mine; I will repay.' And I will repay too."