ising," answered Rand. "This morning I have
ridden from the Wolf Trap. Will you sit?"

"Ah," said Cary, "I rode from Fontenoy. After you, sir!"

They sat down, side by side, upon the Justice's Bench, the Federalist
very easy, the Republican, lacking the perfection of the other's
manner, with a stiffness and constraint of which he was aware and which
he hated in himself. He knew himself well enough to know that presently,
in the excitement of the race, the ugly mantle would slip from the
braced athlete, but at the moment he felt his disadvantage. Subtly and
slowly, released from some deep, central tarn of his most secret self, a
vapour of distaste and dislike began to darken the cells of clear
thought. As a boy he had admired and envied Ludwell Cary; for his
political antagonist, pure and simple, he had, unlike most around him,
often the friendliest feeling; but now, sitting there on the Justice's
Bench, he wondered if he were going to hate Cary. Suddenly an image came
out of the vapour. "How long has he been at Fontenoy? Does he think he
can win there, too?"

The younger Cary marched to the polls with his head held high, and voted
loudly for his brother. The latter smiled upon him, and said with
simplicity, "Thank you, Fair!" The Republican candidate looked
attentively at the young man. The spirit and the fire, subdued in the
elder brother, was in the younger as visible as lightning. Rand was
quick at divining men, and now he thought, "This man would make a
tireless enemy."

Following Fairfax Cary came another of the group who had entered with
the Carys. "Mr. Peyton votes for Mr. Ludwell Cary!" cried the sheriff.
The Federalists applauded, the Republicans groaned, the tallymen took
note, and Cary bowed his thanks. "Mr. Peyton, your very humble servant!
Mount Eagle and Greenwood are old comrades-at-arms!"

"I'll kill _your_ vote, Craven Peyton!" came a voice. "I vote, Mr.
Sheriff, for Lewis Rand!"

"Ludwell Cary!" cried another, "and there's a killer killed, Dick
Carr!"

"I'll draw a bead on you, Gentry!" put in a third. "The best shot in the
county, Mr. Sheriff, and that's Lewis Rand!"

"Lewis Rand stands ten ahead!" cried a committee-man; and the sheriff,
"Gentlemen, gentlemen! order at the polls!"

A small, wizened man, middle-aged and elaborately dressed in much
ancient and tarnished finery, came bowing through the crowd. A curled
wig shadowed a narrow face, and lace ruffles fell over long-fingered
hands,