Stephen, craning in his seat, caught sight of Mr. Lincoln slouched into one of his favorite attitudes, his chin resting in his hand.

But who is this, erect, compact, aggressive, searching with a confident eye the wilderness of upturned faces?  A personage, truly, to be questioned timidly, to be approached advisedly.  Here indeed was a lion, by the very look of him, master of himself and of others.  By reason of its regularity and masculine strength, a handsome face.  A man of the world to the cut of the coat across the broad shoulders.  Here was one to lift a youngster into the realm of emulation, like a character in a play, to arouse dreams of Washington and its senators and great men.  For this was one to be consulted by the great alone.  A figure of dignity and power, with magnetism to compel moods.  Since, when he smiled, you warmed in spite of yourself, and when he frowned the world looked grave.

The inevitable comparison was come, and Stephen’s hero was shrunk once more.  He drew a deep breath, searched for the word, and gulped.  There was but the one word.  How country Abraham Lincoln looked beside Stephen Arnold Douglas!

Had the Lord ever before made and set over against each other two such different men?  Yes, for such are the ways of the Lord.

........................

The preliminary speaking was in progress, but Stephen neither heard nor saw until he felt the heavy hand of his companion on his knee.

“There’s something mighty strange, like fate, between them two,” he was saying.  “I recklect twenty-five years ago when they was first in the Legislatur’ together.  A man told me that they was both admitted to practice in the S’preme Court in ’39, on the same day, sir.  Then you know they was nip an’ tuck after the same young lady.  Abe got her.  They’ve been in Congress together, the Little Giant in the Senate, and now, here they be in the greatest set of debates the people of this state ever heard; Young man, the hand of fate is in this here, mark my words—­”

There was a hush, and the waves of that vast human sea were stilled.  A man, lean, angular, with coat-tail:  flapping-unfolded like a grotesque figure at a side-show.

No confidence was there.  Stooping forward, Abraham Lincoln began to speak, and Stephen Brice hung his head and shuddered.  Could this shrill falsetto be the same voice to which he had listened only that morning?  Could this awkward, yellow man with his hands behind his back be he whom he had worshipped?  Ripples of derisive laughter rose here and there, on the stand and from the crowd.  Thrice distilled was the agony of those moments!