The judge gazed around him with a vacant stare. "I feel cold," he said, shivering; "very cold, very faint, too. But I've made all right HERE," and he held out a document. "I wrote this paper in my room last night--in case of accident--confessing everything. I brought it down here, signed and witnessed, unread, intending to read it out if the verdict went against me--I mean, against Waring.... But I feel too weak now to read anything further.... I'm so cold, so cold. Take the paper, Forbes-Ewing. It's all in your line. You'll know what to do with it." He could hardly utter a word, breath failed him so fast. "This thing has killed me," he went on, mumbling. "I deserved it. I deserved it." "How about the prisoner?" the authority from the gaol asked, as the judge collapsed rather than sat down on the bench again. Those words roused Sir Gilbert to full consciousness once more. The judge rose again, solemnly, in all the majesty of his ermine. "The prisoner is discharged," he said, in a loud, clear voice. "I am here to do justice--justice against myself. I enter a verdict of not guilty." Then he turned to the polices "I am your prisoner," he went on, in a broken, rambling way. "I give myself in charge for the manslaughter of Montague Nevitt. Manslaughter, not murder. Though I don't even admit myself, indeed, it was anything more than justifiable homicide." He sank back again once more, and murmured three times in his seat, as if to himself, "Justifiable homicide! Justifiable homicide! Just--ifiable homicide!" Somebody rose in court as he sank, and moved quickly towards him. The judge recognised him at once. "Granville Kelmscott," he said; in a weary voice, "help me out of this. I am very, very ill. You're a friend. I'm dying. Give me your arm! Assist me!" CHAPTER XLV. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. Granville helped him on his arm into the judge's room amid profound silence. All the court was deeply stirred. A few personal friends hurried after him eagerly. Among them were the Warings, and Mrs. Clifford, and Elma. The judge staggered to a seat, and held Granville's hand long and silently in his. Then his eye caught Elma's. He turned to her gratefully. "Thank you, young lady," he said, in a very thick voice. "You were extremely good. I forget your name. But you helped me greatly." There was such a pathetic ring in those significant words, "I forget your name," that every eye about stood dimmed with moisture. Remorse had clearly blotted out all else now from Sir Gilbert Gildersleeve's powerful brain save the solitary memory of his great wrong-doing. "Something's upon his mind still," Elma cried, looking hard at him. "He's dying! he's dying! But he wants to say something else before he dies, I'm certain. ... Mr. Kelmscott, it's to you. Oh, Cyril, stand back! Mother, leave them alone! I'm sure from his eye he wants to say something to Mr. Kelmscott."