For Mr. Palmer’s procession, with its carriages, riders, and flags, was entering ahead of them; and the train of tipsy rabble which accompanied it blocked King Street, and presently brought the coach to a stand. The candidate, lifting his cocked hat from time to time, was a hundred paces before them and barely visible through a forest of flags and banners. But a troop of mounted gentry in dusty black, and smiling dames in carriages—who hardly masked the disgust with which they viewed the forest of grimy hands extended to them to shake—were under the travellers’ eyes, and showed in the sunlight both tawdry and false. Our party, however, were not long at ease to enjoy the spectacle. The crowd surrounded the coach, leapt on the steps, and hung on to the boot. And presently the noise scared the horses, which at the entrance to the marketplace began to plunge. “The Bill! The Bill!” cried the rabble. And with truculence called on the passengers to assent. “You lubbers,” they bawled, “shout for the Bill! Or we’ll have you over!” “All right! All right!” replied Sammy, controlling his horses as well as he could. “We’re all for the Bill here! Hurrah!” “Hurrah! Palmer for ever, Tories in the river!” cried the mob. “Hurrah!” “Hurrah!” echoed the guard, willing to echo anything. “The Bill for ever! But let us pass, lads! Let us pass! We’re for the Bear, and we’ve no votes.” “Britons never will be slaves!” shrieked a drunken butcher as the marketplace opened before them. The space was alive with flags and gay with cockades, and thronged by a multitude, through which the candidate’s procession clove its way slowly. “We’ll have votes now! Three cheers for Lord John!” “Hurrah! Hurrah!” “And down with Orange Peel!” squeaked a small tailor in a high falsetto. The roar of laughter which greeted the sally startled the horses afresh. But the guard had dropped down by this time and fought his way to the head of one of the leaders; and two or three good-humoured fellows seconded his efforts. Between them the coach was piloted slowly but safely through the press; which, to do it justice, meant only to exercise the privileges which the Election season brought with it. V ROSY-FINGERED DAWN “_Beaucoup de bruit, pas de mal!_” Vaughan muttered in his neighbour’s ear; and saw with as much surprise as pleasure that she understood. And all would have gone well but for the imprudence of the inside passenger who had distinguished himself by his protest against the placard. The coach was within a dozen paces of the Bear, the crowd was falling back from it, the peril, if it had been real, seemed past, the most timid was breathing again, when he thrust out his foolish head, and flung a taunt—which those on the roof could not hear—at the rabble.