Vaughan did not suspect that, as he paused, looking down on the Hall, he was himself watched, and by some sore enough that moment to be glad to wreak their feelings in any direction. As he set his foot on the stone pavement a group near at hand raised a cry of “Turncoat! Turncoat!” and that so loudly that he could not but hear it. An unmistakable hiss followed; and then, “Who stole a seat?” cried one of the men. “And isn’t going to keep it?” cried another. Vaughan turned short at the last words—he had not felt sure that the first were addressed to him. With a hot face, and every fibre in his body tingling with defiance, he stepped up to the group. “Did you speak to me?” he said. A man with a bullying air put himself before the others. He was a ruined Irish Member, who had sat for years for a close borough, and for whom the Bill meant duns, bailiffs, a sponging-house, in a word, the loss of all those thing’s which made life tolerable. He was full of spite and spoiling for a fight with someone, no matter with whom. “Who are you?” he replied, confronting our friend with a sneer. “I have not the pleasure of your acquaintance, sir!” Vaughan was about to answer him in kind, when he espied in the middle of the group the pale, keen face and greyish whiskers of Sergeant Wathen. And, “Perhaps you have not,” he retorted, “but that gentleman has.” He pointed to Wathen. “And, if what was said a moment ago,” he continued, “was meant for me, I have the honour to ask for an explanation.” “Explanation?” a Member in the background cried, in a jeering tone. “Is there need of one?” Vaughan was no longer red, he was white with anger. “Who spoke?” he asked, his voice ringing. The Irishman looked over his shoulder and laughed. “Right you are, Jerry!” he said: “I’ll not give you up!” And then to Vaughan, “I did not,” he said rudely. “For the rest, sir, the Hall is large enough. And we have no need of your heroics here!” “Your pleasure, however,” Vaughan replied, haughtily, “is not my law. Some one of you used words a moment ago which seemed to imply——” “What, sir?” “That I obtained my seat by unfair means! And the truth being perfectly well known to that gentleman”—again he pointed to the Sergeant in a way which left Wathen anything but comfortable. “I am sure that he will tell you that the statement——” “Statement?” “Statement or imputation, or whatever you please to call it,” Vaughan answered, sticking to his point in spite of interruptions, “is absolutely unfounded—and false. And false! And, therefore, must be retracted.” “Must, sir?” “Yes, must!” Vaughan replied—he was no coward. “Must, if you call yourselves gentlemen. But first, Mr. Sergeant,” he continued, fixing Wathen with his eye, “I will ask you to tell these friends of yours that I did not turn my coat at Chippinge. And that there was nothing in my election which in any degree touched my honour.”