And this was their return! No wonder that, seeing things as he saw them, he felt a bitter contempt for them. Freedom? Such freedom as was good for them, such freedom as was permanently possible—they had. And slavery? Was it slavery to be ruled, wisely and firmly, by a class into which they might themselves rise, a class which education and habit had qualified to rule. In his mind’s eye, as he looked down on this fretting, seething mass, he saw that which they craved granted, and he saw, too, the outcome; that most cruel of all tyrannies, the tyranny of the many over the few, of the many who have neither a heart to feel nor a body to harm! Once, twice, thrice one of his supporters thrust himself forward, and leaning on the rail, appealed with frantic gestures for silence, for a hearing, for respect. But each in turn retired baffled. Not a word in that tempest of sound was audible. And no one on the other side intervened. For they were pitiless. They in the old days had suffered the same thing: and it was their turn now. Even Vaughan stood with folded arms and a stern face: feeling the last contempt for the howling rabble before him, but firmly determined to expose himself to no second slight. At length Sir Robert saw that it was hopeless, shrugged his shoulders with quiet scorn, and shouting the names of his candidates in a clerk’s ear, put on his hat, and stood back. The old Squire seconded him in dumb show. Then the Sergeant stood forward to state his views. He grasped the rail with both hands and waited, smiling blandly. But he might have waited an hour, he might have waited until night. The leaders for the Bill were determined to make their power felt. They were resolved that not a word on the Tory side should be heard. The Sergeant waited, and after a time, still smiling blandly, bowed and stood back. It was Mr. Cooke’s turn. He advanced. “Shout, and be hanged to you!” he cried, apoplectic in the face. An egg flew within a yard of him, and openly shaking his fist at the crowd he retired amid laughter. Then White-Hat Williams, who had looked forward to this as to the golden moment of his life and had conned his oration until he knew its thunderous periods by heart, stepped forward to nominate the Whig candidates. He took off his hat; and as if that had been the signal for silence, such a stillness fell on all that his voice rang above the multitude like a trumpet. “Gentlemen,” he said, and smiling looked first to the one side and then to the other. “Gentlemen——”