Of this is the judge judge and the night does not end.

In the white and empty room he stood in his bespoken suit with his hat in his hand and he peered down with his small and lashless pig’s eyes wherein this child just sixteen years on earth could read whole bodies of decisions not accountable to the courts of men and he saw his own name which nowhere else could he have ciphered out at all logged into

great shambling mutant, silent and serene. Whatever his antecedents he was something wholly other than their sum, nor was there system by which to divide him back into his origins for he would not go.

The colt stood against the horse with its head down and the horse was watching, out there past men’s knowing, where the stars are drowning and whales ferry their vast souls through the black and seamless sea.

Do you think I could not know? You alone were mutinous. You alone reserved in your soul some corner of clemency for the heathen.

Coming toward them over the plain in the middle distance they could see the figure of the judge, the figure of the fool.

It was cold and the expriest in his rags and his collar of blood hugged himself.

Do it, he whispered. Do you think he speaks to me?

He called out points of jurisprudence, he cited cases.