Inside a saloon, you see a chaos of people dancing, drinking or even fighting.

And they are dancing, the board floor slamming under the jackboots and the fiddlers grinning hideously over their canted pieces. Towering over them all is the judge and he is naked, dancing, his small feet lively and quick and now in doubletime and bowing to the ladies, huge and pale and hairless, like an enormous infant.

He never sleeps, he says. He says he’ll never die. He bows to the fiddlers and sashays backwards and throws back his head and laughs deep in his throat and he is a great favorite, the judge. He wafts his hat and the lunar dome of his skull passes palely under the lamps and he swings about and takes possession of one of the fiddles and he pirouettes and makes a pass, two passes, dancing and fiddling at once. His feet are light and nimble.

He never sleeps. He says that he will never die. He dances in light and in shadow, he is a great favorite. He never sleeps, the judge. He is dancing, dancing. He says that he will never die...

A few minutes after he stops dancing, he notices you. He approaches and towers over you with his tall figure, saying:

“The man who believes that the secrets of the world are forever hidden lives in mystery and fear. Superstition will drag him down. Tell me, new one, what brings you here?”