The judge gave no answer, and again he rocked to and fro in his misery. "Paul, my son," he said. "I cannot!" Again the two men looked at each other steadily. Paul's mind was active again now. "You know what your confession meant this morning," he said at length. "You declared to the court that I was your son, your lawful son; that my mother was your lawful wife. But what of Mary? Tell me that. You know what I wrote to you concerning her. I asked you to allow me to try and win her as my wife, not knowing of the relations which existed between us--not knowing anything. You know, too, the cruel reply you sent to me--a reply which contained an insult in every line, in every word. But let that pass. If my mother is your lawful wife, what of Mary's mother? Will you answer me that?" Still the judge stood with bowed head. It seemed as though he had been struck a death-blow. More than once he essayed to speak, but no words passed his lips. It seemed an eternity to Paul before the judge spoke again. "At least I tried to do you justice, Paul," he stammered. "I tried to do--that is, I tried to proclaim to the world that your mother was a lawful wife." "Yes," cried the young man, and his voice was hard with anger. "And do you not see what it means? It means that Mary's name is tarnished. For your sin and your punishment I do not care so much; but what of her? Think of the stories which gossiping tongues will be telling about her just now! Think of the sneering lies, the scornful gibes which will be uttered about her! My disgrace did not matter so much; I had become used to it. But what of her?" "Stop, stop, Paul! In pity stop! Great God! Yes, it's true; but I did not realise this." "Then the name of Bolitho is assumed," said Paul. "It is not your true name at all. Will you tell me the meaning of this?" "I cannot," said the judge. "I know what you must be thinking, Paul, but I cannot do it." "Then," cried the young man angrily, "it was cruel to her to make the confession you did this morning. I would a thousand times rather suffer myself--ay, and see my mother suffer, too--than see her suffer. And this is what you've done. Had you not better go away and leave me alone? Had you not better recant what you said this morning, and say you spoke while your mind was unhinged?" "Paul," said the judge, "will you let me sit down on your couch here? I realise the truth of every word you have said, although you have spoken cruelly. Perhaps I did wrong in coming to you; but I could not help it. Believe me, my son, much as you have suffered, it is nothing to what I suffer at this moment." There was no whine in his voice, no appeal to pity. It was a simple statement of fact, and for the first time Paul had a feeling in his heart which he could not understand. After all, the man before him was his father, and his haggard face, his bent form, his bloodshot eyes, all told of the agony through which he was passing.