The heat of the election grew intense and consuming, overthrowing all barriers, swallowing up all scruples, till it was not without call that the sheriff, and the company of soldiers were looked for, at the last moment, to keep the tottering peace. Lady Bell’s room in the Trevor’s lodgings had come to be invaded with the Squire’s supporters, agents, and whippers-in, as they sought privacy in which to make up their lists, yell the sum total, wrangle, start new and more audacious schemes, and openly discuss infamous and scoundrelly plans. In spite of the weight of Mr. Trevor’s character and stake in the county, there arose a horrible suspicion that the whig interest had gained ground in Peasmarsh, and that the tories might be defeated. Forbid it, all ye powers of moral orthodox landowners, since Gregory Sundon, of Chevely, in addition to having been a gamester of the first water, a hard drinker, a frequenter of riotous company, after the pattern of his worthy master in statesmanship, was also a renegade to Charles James Fox’s revolutionary American creed. Let all the powers of torydom be fitly called in to circumvent such vile traitors! “Egad! I would rather call Greg. Sundon out, and wing him before the nomination day,” suggested a fire-eater. “Sooner be winged yourself, Ted,” said a listener, mockingly. “Sundon is the best shot and swordsman between this and London.” “Had large practice, you see,” a third took up the tale briskly, “has us at a shameful disadvantage. Why not steal a march upon him—not wing him, but deal him a stray blow with a cudgel, or the flight of a stone, to crack his conceited pate or smash a limb? That would keep him out of our way for a week or two; teach him better manners,—be for his good in the long-run;” the speaker looked round triumphantly. Squire Trevor was sitting, leaning back, in an arm-chair, a member of his tumultuous council, but preserving a grim silence. At the proposal his florid face darkened to purple, his red-brown eyes glared, he smote the table with his fist, and swore, with a ghastly grin, that he should like to be there to see when the barbarous stroke was dealt to his rival. No one looking on the squire’s inflamed, distorted face could doubt that if he took vengeance into his own hand, there might be grievous danger of the rattening—the word might not exist then, but the thing was there, and in higher walks of life—passing swiftly into murder. “Gentlemen, let me warn you,” interposed an anxious attorney, “that kidnapping on the occasion of an election is set down as a grave crime in the calendar, and is punished accordingly.” “Who talked of kidnapping, Torney, unless it were your long-nosed, pettifogging self?” the nervous hint was angrily put down. “Said and done, Bennet, what you wot of. But Sundon parades the town, backed by a ragged regiment of democratic dogs.”