Within the Court House the throng, slight at first, was rapidly increasing.  The building was not large, and from end to end, and on the high window-sills beneath the long green blinds, the people pushed and shoved and stood a-tiptoe.  It was yet early morning, and for some unexplained reason the Federalist candidate had not arrived.

Upon the Justice’s Bench, raised high above the crowded floor, sat the candidate of the Democrat-Republicans—­the Republicans, pure and simple, as they were beginning to be called.  Near him stood the sheriff and the deputy-sheriff; around him pressed committee-men, heelers with tallies, vociferous well-wishers, and prophets of victory, and a few, a very few, personal and private friends.  On the other hand, strongly gathering and impatiently awaiting their candidate, his foes gloomed upon him.  Everywhere was a buzzing of voices:  farmers and townspeople voting loudly, the sheriff as loudly recording each vote, the clerk humming over his book, the crowd making excited comment.  There was no ballot-voting; it was a viva voce matter, and each man knew his fellow’s creed.

Lewis Rand sat at ease, a tall and personable man, with the head of a victor, and a face that had the charm of strength.  The eye was keen and dark, the jaw square, the thick brown hair cut short, as was the Republican fashion.  His dress was plain but good, worn with a certain sober effect, an “it pleases me,” that rendered silk and fine ruffles superfluous.  He was listening to a wide-girthed tavern-keeper and old soldier of the Revolution’s loud declaration that Lewis Rand was the coming man, and that he was for Lewis Rand.  The old county wanted no English-thinking young Federalist in Richmond.  “Too many Federalists there a’ready!  Mr. Lewis Rand, Mr. Sheriff!”

The Republicans applauded.  The custom of the time required that the man voted for should thank the man who voted, and that aloud and aptly, with no slurring acknowledgment of service.  Lewis Rand, a born speaker and familiar with his audience, was at no loss.  “I thank you, Mr. Fagg!  May your shadow never grow less!  The old county—­Mr. Jefferson’s county, gentlemen—­may be trusted to hold its own, in Richmond or in Washington, in Heaven or in Hell!  Mr. Fagg, I will drink your health in punch of the Eagle’s brewing!  Your very obliged friend and servant!”

From street and yard without came a noise of cheering, with cries of “Black Cockade!  Black Cockade!  The party of Washington—­Washington forever!—­The old county for Cary!—­Albemarle for Cary!—­The county for a gentleman!”

“Mr. Ludwell Cary has arrived,” announced the sheriff.

“Here comes the gentleman!” cried a man from a windowsill.  “Stand up, Lewis Rand, and show him a man!”

The throng at the door parted, and with a Federalist and distinguished following the two Carys entered, the elder quiet and smiling, the younger flushed, bright-eyed, and anxious.  The attachment between these two brothers was very strong; it was to be seen in every glance that passed between them, in every tone of voice used by each to the other.  The elder played fond Mentor, and the younger thought his brother a demi-god.  They were men of an old name, an old place, an inherited charm.  “Ludwell Cary!” cried a mail.  “Long live Ludwell Cary!”