“Savelli.  Thirteen hundred and seventy majority.”  And then there burst out wild cheers and the crowd broke into a myriad little waves like a choppy sea.  Men danced and shouted and clapped each other on the back, and the tall facade of the street opposite the hall was a-flutter.  Suddenly the white patch leaped into an illumination proclaiming the figures.

Savelli—­6,135.

Finn—­4,765.

Again the wild cheering rose, and then the great double windows in the centre of the first floor of the Town Hall were flung open and Paul, surrounded by the mayor and officials, appeared.

Paul gripped the iron hand-rail and looked down upon the tumultuous scene, his ears deafened by the roar, his eyes dazed by the conflicting lights and the million swift reflections from moving faces and arms and hats and handkerchiefs.  The man is not born who can receive unmoved a frenzied public ovation.  A lump rose in his throat.  After all, this delirium of joy was sincere.  He stood for the moment the idol of the populace.  For him this vast concourse of human beings had waited in rain and mud and now became a deafening, seething welter of human passion.  He gripped the rail tighter and closed his eyes.  He heard as in a dream the voice of the mayor behind him:  “Say a few words.  They won’t hear you—­but that doesn’t matter.”

Then Paul drew himself up, facing the whirling scene.  He sought in his pockets and suddenly shot up his hand, holding a letter, and awaited a lull in the uproar.  He was master of himself now.  He had indeed words to say, deliberately prepared, and he knew that if he could get a hearing he would say them as deliberately.  At last came comparative calm.

“Gentlemen,” said he, with a motion of the letter, “my opponent is dying.”

He paused.  The words, so unexpected, so strangely different from the usual exordium, seemed to pass from line to line through the crowd.

“I am speaking in the presence of death,” said Paul, and paused again.

And a hush spread like a long wave across the street, and the thronged windows, last of all, grew still and silent.

“I will ask you to hear me out, for I have something very grave to say.”  And his voice rang loud and clear.  “Last night my opponent was forced to admit that nearly thirty years ago he suffered a term of penal servitude.  The shock, after years of reparation, of spotless life, spent in the service of God and his fellow-creatures, has killed him.  I desire publicly to proclaim that I, as his opponent, had no share in the dastardly blow that has struck him down.  And I desire to proclaim the reason.  He is my own father; I, Paul Savelli, am my opponent, Silas Finn’s son.”

A great gasp and murmur rose from the wonder-stricken throng, but only momentarily, for the spell of drama was on them.  Paul continued.