knew all that, this poster seemed to him particularly damnable, and he could not for the life of him resist striking one of the sandwich-boards with his cane.  The resounding thwack startled a butcher’s pony standing by the pavement.  It reared, and bolted forward, with Courtier, who had naturally seized the rein, hanging on.  A dog dashed past.  Courtier tripped and fell.  The pony, passing over, struck him on the head with a hoof.  For a moment he lost consciousness; then coming to himself, refused assistance, and went to his hotel.  He felt very giddy, and, after bandaging a nasty cut, lay down on his bed.

Miltoun, returning from that necessary exhibition of himself, the crowning fact, at every polling centre, found time to go and see him.

“That last poster of yours!” Courtier began, at once.

“I’m having it withdrawn.”

“It’s done the trick—­congratulations—­you’ll get in!”

“I knew nothing of it.”

“My dear fellow, I didn’t suppose you did.”

“When there is a desert, Courtier, between a man and the sacred city, he doesn’t renounce his journey because he has to wash in dirty water on the way:  The mob—­how I loathe it!”

There was such pent-up fury in those words as to astonish even one whose life had been passed in conflict with majorities.

“I hate its mean stupidities, I hate the sound of its voice, and the look on its face—­it’s so ugly, it’s so little.  Courtier, I suffer purgatory from the thought that I shall scrape in by the votes of the mob.  There is sin in using this creature and I am expiating it.”

To this strange outburst, Courtier at first made no reply.

“You’ve been working too hard,” he said at last, “you’re off your balance.  After all, the mob’s made up of men like you and me.”

“No, Courtier, the mob is not made up of men like you and me.  If it were it would not be the mob.”

“It looks,” Courtier answered gravely, “as if you had no business in this galley.  I’ve always steered clear of it myself.”

“You follow your feelings.  I have not that happiness.”

So saying, Miltoun turned to the door.

Courtier’s voice pursued him earnestly.

“Drop your politics—­if you feel like this about them; don’t waste your life following whatever it is you follow; don’t waste hers!”

But Miltoun did not answer.

It was a wondrous still night, when, a few minutes before twelve, with his forehead bandaged under his hat, the champion of lost causes left the hotel and made his way towards the Grammar School for the declaration of the poll.  A sound as of some monster breathing guided him, till, from a steep empty street he came in sight of a surging crowd, spread over the town square, like a dark carpet patterned by splashes of lamplight.  High up above that crowd, on the little peaked tower of the Grammar School, a brightly