me the senatorship as coolly as if
he had it in his pocket!"

Galt laughed. "I'm not sure he hasn't; at any rate he's the power of the
ring, and the ring's the power of the party."

"Then I'll fight the ring," said Nicholas, "and, if need be, I'll fight
the party. So long as right and the people are with me the party may go
hang."

"My dear old Nick, history teaches us that the party hangs the people.
By the way, you've done Webb a good turn; Rann is going to fight you
fair and foul--mostly foul."

"Oh, I'm not afraid of Rann, or of Webb."

"Or yet of the devil!" added Galt. "When I come to think of it, I never
called you timid. But wait a few days and Rann will have this little
passage reported to his credit. I'll get ahead of him with the story, or
I'll find some cocked-up account of it circulating in the lobby. It's
easier to blacken the best man than to whiten the worst. Well, I'm
going. Good day!"

When the door closed, the governor crossed to the window and stood
looking down upon the gray drive beneath the leafless trees. The sun was
obscured by a sinister cloud that had blotted out all the fugitive
brightness of the morning. A fine moisture was in the air, and the
atmosphere hung heavily down the naked slopes, where the grass was
colourless and dead. Beyond the gates, the city was lost in a blurred
and melancholy distance, from which several indistinct church spires
rose and sank in a sea of fog.

But blue and gray were as one to Nicholas. He was not exhilarated by
sunshine nor was he depressed by gloom; only the inner forces of his
nature had power to quicken or control his moods. His inspiration, like
his destiny, lay within, and so long as he maintained his wonted
equilibrium of judgment and desire it was, perhaps, impossible that an
outside assault should severely shake the foundations of his life.

Now, while the glow of his anger still lingered in his brain, it was
characteristic of the man that he was feeling a pity for Rann's
disappointment--for the discomfiture of one whose methods he despised.
In Rann's place, he felt that he should probably have risen to the
charge as Rann rose--implacable, unswerving; but he was not in Rann's
place, nor could he be so long as personal reward was less to him than
personal honour. Yes, he could pity Rann even while he condemned him.
For an instant--a single instant--he had found himself shrinking from
the combat, and in the shock of self-contempt which follo