"You want mercy," said Good brutally. He marvelled at the phrase. That was not what he had meant to say. It seemed to come from lips quite beyond his control.
"Not for myself." The old man's tone was inexpressibly sad, yet not without a certain dignity. "There are my daughters. I—I—would spare them."
"Belated, eh—a bit, don't you think?" Again Good was amazed at his cruelty. He seemed to be in the grasp of devils.
The Judge hung his head. "I don't know what to say," he sighed brokenly. "I only hoped—"
"That you could come snivelling to me and beg off, for the sake of your daughters, eh? Well—look here, my friend. You've given us the greatest scoop of the year." Good's tone was as hard as adamant, though there were tears in his heart. "To save your daughters from disgrace, you'd have us give up the thing we live for."
"I know—I know—but is it so much?"
"It's everything. But let that pass. Here's a thing that counts. Has it occurred to you what would happen to me if I listened to you?"
"To you?"
"Yes. If I kill this story, my work here ends. By the standards of those about me I'd be a traitor. I've preached truth without fear or favour—you understand—without fear or favour. I've fought pull with everything I've got. And now you'd have me ... man, it's a test—can't you see—it's a test!" Good's voice changed suddenly. From the court, passing sentence, he had become the condemned, pleading for clemency.
The old man drew himself up. "I see. I did not—wholly understand. It is—inevitable."