Paul looked at him angrily. "Pity!" he replied, and there was a world of scorn in his voice.
The judge stood with bowed head. "Yes, I understand," and he spoke almost in a whisper. "I understand, and I deserve your scorn. I deserve it a thousand times over. But do not think I have not suffered, Paul."
Paul gave an impatient shrug and took two steps across his little cell.
"I am afraid I cannot give you a welcome befitting your lordship's position," he said. "As you will see, my ménage does not suggest very great luxury, and I think my servants are in a state of revolution. But will you not be seated?"
"You see," he went on, "when a man is being tried for murder, even although the English law says that every man must be regarded as innocent until he has been proved to be guilty, it does not provide any luxuries!"
"Paul, my boy, do you not know? Do you not understand?" said the judge. "Yes, I have been guilty of all those things of which you are thinking. I deserve all the contempt and all the anger you feel for me, but I come to you as a suppliant."
"For what?"
"For your forgiveness, your love. I am no longer your judge. If I were I could not be here. That's over now. Another will take my place. If I can do anything to atone, my boy, I will do it, if you will let me know what it is. Do you not see? Do you not understand?"
There was a world of pleading in his voice, while in his tired eyes was a look of yearning and longing that Paul could not understand.
"If you will tell me what you wish," said the younger man, "if you will explain to me your desires, perhaps—although, as you see, I am so curiously situated—I will do what I can to meet your wishes."