In this light the calmness of Judge Houston became to him cold criticism, before which he quailed.
Words that might in some way palliate his action rushed to his lips, finding excuses that a moment before, in the absorption of his anger, he would have despised.
"You believe," he said at last, in a more controlled voice, "that there sometimes come in a man's life circumstances that rob him of the faculty of reasoning? Perhaps one incident that blots out everything that has gone before, leaving in its place only one absorbing determination. You believe that, don't you?"
Judge Houston bowed his head silently.
"You believe too that there are things in life that a man must resent—must resent even by going against all the laws of God and man—that unless he does resent them the rest of his life must be without self-respect and without honours. Then, if a man does not fight, life is rendered valueless to him, both in his own eyes and those of the community, and existence becomes a burden! At times like these one must choose between two evils. I have chosen the least of the two."
"A duel!" The old man rose from his chair, and paced the floor, his hands clasped behind him. "A duel? With whom?"
His lips were twitching slightly, and his hands—old, worn hands, which the years had left drawn and stretched into a thousand creases, and the sight of which, clasping and unclasping in his nervousness, smote Sargent with a keen, knifelike pain, through the knowledge that he was causing the old gentleman to suffer for his sake. He put out his hand impulsively, and grasped the other's when he passed close to him.
"Don't blame me—forgive me," he said. "Don't make it any harder than it is already. I believe in my heart you would have done the same."
"Tell me, my boy." The Judge's voice was full of sympathy.
The torrent of words came at last, and as he told his story Sargent found a relief that left him weak and exhausted. The strain was reaching its limit.