“Of course—to be sure,” he said. “Mr. Taylor’s name appeared on a good many ballots; his friends _wrote_ it, with pencil, and otherwise. But the law expressly states that a candidate’s name must be _printed_. Therefore, obeying the letter of the law, the governor has ruled that Mr. Taylor was not elected.” There was malicious satisfaction in Judge Littlefield’s eyes as they met Taylor’s. Taylor could see that the judge was in entire sympathy with the influences that were opposing him, though the judge tried, with a grave smile, to create an impression of impartiality. “Under the governor’s ruling, therefore,” he continued, “and acting under explicit directions from the attorney-general, I am empowered to administer the oath of office to the legally elected candidate, David Danforth. Now, if Mr. Danforth is in the courtroom, and will come forward, we shall conclude.” Mr. Danforth was in the courtroom; he was sitting near Carrington; and he came forward, his face slightly flushed, with the gaze of every person in the room on him. He smiled apologetically at Taylor as he reached the railing, extending a hand. “I’m damned sorry, Taylor,” he declared. “This is all a surprise to me. I hadn’t any doubt that they would swear you in. No hard feelings?” Taylor had been conscious of the humiliation of his position. He knew that his friends would expect him to fight. And yet he felt more like gracefully yielding to the forces which had barred him from office upon the basis of so slight a technicality. And despite the knowledge that he had been robbed of the office, he would have taken Danforth’s hand, had he not at that instant chanced to glance at Carrington. The latter’s eyes were aglow with a vindictive triumph; as his gaze met Taylor’s, his lips curved with a sneer. A dark passion seized Taylor—the bitter, savage rage of jealousy. The antagonism he had felt for Carrington that day on the train when he had heard Carrington’s voice for the first time was suddenly intensified. It had been growing slowly, provoked by his knowledge of the man’s evil designs on Marion Harlan. But now there had come into the first antagonism a gripping lust to injure the other, a determination to balk him, to defeat him, to meet him on his own ground and crush him. For Carrington’s sneer had caused the differences between them to become sharply personal; it would make the fight that was brewing between the two men not a political fight, but a fight of the spirit. Taylor interpreted the sneer as a challenge, and he accepted it. His eyes gleamed with hatred unmistakable as they held Carrington’s; and the grin on his lips was the cold, unhumorous grin of the fighter who is not dismayed by odds. His voice was low and sharp, and it carried to every person in the room: “We won’t shake, Danforth; you are not particular enough about the character of your friends!”