I am the one who keeps the records of all deeds and words which are in this hall. It is said I record a sentence as it is passed, yet for many years I have been here and I have seen and heard much –but never have I heard the Judge speak a single word.

A lady appeared here just the other day. She was a fine lady by all appearances. Her clothes were costly and her stance was proud. She wandered about the place many hours — and I thought she might remain. She looked upon many of the residents, most of which have been here longer than myself, with what appeared to me to be pity. On some for their humble pose, and others for their tattered garments. Then she looked upon the one who sits upon the throne. And her chin tilted up in a defiant manner. And her eyes iced over, or perhaps I only became aware that her eyes had that quality. Then she said in a loud voice, “it isn’t so, I’ve always done the best thing.” But no one answered and she turned on her heel and stomped off as a woman will do when she believes she has been wronged.

After she left a man came in. He had a proud bearing. He first noticed a cripple near the outer wall, who had only a few rags covering him. He wandered over to the cripple, distracted for a few moments and offered him his jacket. The cripple looked at him with a sparkle of recognition in his eye, then to the Judge. The man followed his gaze. And when he saw the Judge he fell to his knees sobbing. And there he remained.

The next to enter was a child. A small girl of four or five, with a sweet countenance. She was looking at the floor and taking giant steps, one at a time. Then suddenly, she stopped, looked at the Judge, smiled, then ran forward and hugged his leg.

Then a boy entered, and with him a girl. They appeared to be both very old and very young. They bore scars as if they had fought in many battles. They looked about, then walked somewhat timidly to the throne and knelt before it.

They were followed by a whole group who were shouting and arguing with one another. One by one they looked into the face of the Judge. The first, a rather slimy sort, unshaven, and most probably drunk, looked up. He fell to his knees, saying “I never woulda believe if’n I had’na…” And the next man shouting to his companion to “stand up for Pete’s sake, your makin’ a fool…” Then when his friend refused to stand, he left. And the rest of the group with him.

For many years I have watched one after another come, and most of them leave quickly. But some are drawn to the Judge and walk right up to the throne, while others fall right where they see him, weeping. Others leave rather violently and defiantly, as if they have been accused of a great many misdeeds–yet no one has said a word. And a few more leave rather regretfully, as if they would like to remain but they can’t bear to humble themselves. One or two have been drug in by very large men and are set down screaming and crying until they find a way out.

And so it goes until the end, when the Judge will speak to those who remain, and pardon them.