"We must have three full days in bed, Mr. Stowell, Sir. And if it is necessary to postpone the Court of General Gaol Delivery, I think .... I really think we must ask his Excellency to do so." Stowell drew a deep breath and fell asleep. When he awoke it was mid-day. He was in bed in his father's bedroom and Fenella was sitting by his side, holding his hand. After he had opened his eyes she leaned over him and kissed him, saying in a soft voice that he would soon be better. "It was that oath-taking, dear. I could see you were taking it too seriously." His heart was still warm with the embraces of yesterday, yet he tried in vain to kiss her back. But he laughed a little and made light of his seizure. It was nothing, but a little dizziness; he would be about again in a day or two. "Would you like me to stay and nurse you?" "No, no! .... I mean you needn't...." His stammering broke down and his face gloomed, but with a quick smile she said, "Oh, very well, Sir, if you won't have me, Janet will take care of you, and send me a telegram night and morning to say how you are. Won't you, Janet?" From some unseen place behind the curtains of the four-poster, Janet, snuffling and blowing her nose, answered that she would. "And now I'll be wishing you good-morning, Sir," said Fenella, making (after another kiss) a stately curtsey to him as he lay in bed. The sounds of the wheels of the Governor's carriage having died off on the drive, Stowell found himself alone and face to face with a tragic problem--what was he to do about the trial of Bessie Collister? This, then, was the case Fenella had written about while he was in London. Why had he not thought of it before? He could not pretend that he had never had misgivings. Again and again the evil shadow of a dread possibility had crossed his mind like a vanishing dream at the moment of awakening. He had put it aside, banished it, explained it away to himself. In the fullness of his happiness he had even forgotten it altogether. But Nature did not forget. And now his sin had fallen on him like an avalanche--fallen as only an avalanche falls, when the sky is blue, the air is warm and the sun is shining. He had no doubt about Bessie's guilt. But what about his own? And if he were guilty (in the second degree), being the first cause of the girl's crime, how could he sit in judgment upon her? To try his own victim, to question her, to go through the mockery of weighing the evidence against her, to condemn her, to sentence her--it would be impossible, utterly impossible, contrary to all legal usage, a violation of the spirit if not the letter of his oath in his first hour as a Judge. And then the human side of it--the terror, the peril! That poor girl in the dock, in the depths of her shame and the throes of her temptation, while he, her fellow sinner.... No, no, no! It would not only be a crime against Justice; it would be a sin against God.