I entered the yellow room. It was packed. Every one turned to look at me. It was a picture of a storm at sea; the pale faces were the whitecaps. It foreboded trouble—shipwreck. A little strain of music had run in my head all the afternoon—“The Blessing of the Poniards,” from the “Huguenots”—a full orchestra seemed to play it then; I marched to it. We sat down and waited for the jury. While doing so this thought intruded itself upon me: Had I the gambler’s fever; would “wheel” or “bank” ever interest me again after this? Imagine becoming excited over a hundred dollars placed on the red or black! Of what concern would be a little white ball running around and tumbling into holes; or cards, two at a time, being drawn from a silver box; or, for that matter, five pasteboards held in my own hand? The jury entered; they would not look at me. I knew. The judge entered; we all rose to show our respect—for his gown. He looked pleased; he must have known the verdict as well as I. “The jury will rise.” “The prisoner will rise.” What luck! The chimes from the “New York Life” building, around the corner, struck eleven. Yes, so it proved. “New York Life” was bidding me good-by. The gentlemen of the jury had agreed upon a verdict. They found the prisoner guilty of murder in the first degree. There was applause from the _judge’s_ chambers; a woman’s voice cried out, “Oh, good! Good—good!” A window opened and I saw a carrier-pigeon flash out and fly away. All this to the accompaniment of a groan which ran around the court-room. One woman—God bless her—fainted; and then I felt my father’s hand in mine. The game is over, and I have lost. I must be a good loser, for the crowd in the corridors cheered me—cheered a convicted man on his way to the “Bridge of Sighs.” Then I was under a compound microscope. Convicted men seem to be interesting men; at least, not one of those unwinking eyes would have missed a single tit-bit of my agony had I displayed any. But plain, vulgar pride came to my rescue; for I had seen convicted men carried back to the Tombs, undressed, and put to bed like sick babies; I had heard them howl all night and beg for liquor; some of them had tried to throw themselves downstairs. But my mother, my—stop that! For God’s sake don’t think of that; perhaps later, in the dark---- We crossed the “Bridge of Sighs.” We stepped into the prison yard, flooded with moonlight. It was like the last act of “Romeo and Juliet” among the tombs. Poor, mad Romeo! I thought of other moonlit scenes; of another Romeo; of love vows never to be renewed—that is, I started to think of them—something I must not do. It was all the fault of the queen of night. I had not bathed in her mysterious light for twelve long months. (It was three years before I worshipped her glory again.)