Rand left the Justice’s Bench, stepped forward, and greeted his opponent.  The two touched hands.  “I trust I see you in health, Mr. Cary?”

“Mr. Rand, I thank you, I am very well.  You are early in the lists!”

“I am accustomed to early rising,” 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, yellow as old ivory.  The entire figure was fantastic, even a little grotesque, though after a pleasant fashion.  In a mincing voice and with a strong French accent, M. Achille Pincornet, dancing-master and performer on the violin, intimated that he wished to vote for Mr. Ludwell Cary.  Lewis Rand glanced sharply up, then made a sign to a sandy-haired and freckled man who, tally in hand, stood near him.