One at a Time

The cars from Baltimore came in at the foot of Charter Hill a little before five on the Monday, with the lamps already lit in them; and the whole train, so far as Clay could see, was members.

He had known it would be since Frederick, where the stage from the mountains had set him down in a skin of new snow at the railway, and he had found the platform full of men he knew, with their wives and their trunks and their opinions, all bound for the session. He had sat the last hour of the journey between a member from Indiana and a member from New Jersey, who explained to him across his waistcoat what the country had been saying at its firesides since July. It came, as near as he could make out, to this: that the country did not know what to think about the King, and would be very glad to be told.

He said that he would see what could be done, and they laughed, and he took snuff.

Charles had the trunk on a hack by the time Clay was through the crowd; and they went up the long slope in the dusk through a city that Clay had last seen dead in August, and found come back to life, as a house does when the family comes home. The shutters were open all along the Avenue, and the hotels lit from top to bottom, and porters carrying in trunks at every door, and men on the pavements in greatcoats calling to one another across the frozen mud; and on Charter Hill, over the roofs, Parliament House stood up against the last of the light with a lamp in every window of the east front, where the clerks were at the papers for the session. In three weeks it would be full. He looked up at it from the hack, as he had looked at it every November for thirty years, and felt what he always felt, which was something very like hunger.

Mrs Arguelles had the fire lit in his room and the long table laid for eight with the leaves in; and Stanly was in the parlour already, with his feet on the fender and the New-York papers round him on the floor, and had been waiting, he said, two days for somebody to read them to. Clay let him read. He sat by the fire with his boots off and a glass of Madeira, and found that he was not listening to the papers at all, but to Stanly’s voice, which he had missed. He had not expected to.

---

He had been at Ashland ten weeks, the longest in three years. He had got home before the frost, as he had promised Lucretia, by four days; and he had seen the hemp cut and spread to rot in the fields, and the corn in, and had sat on the gallery in the October afternoons with Henry’s five motherless children climbing over him, and given little Henry the print of the great steam ship that he had promised him in March, and been, for ten weeks, an old farmer in Kentucky with a bad cough and a good cellar, whom nobody came up the drive to ask anything. On the last morning, with the carriage at the door and Lucretia in the hall in her shawl, not crying, because she never did, he had been very near to not getting in at all. He had got in, as he always did, and had begun before the end of the drive to think about the session.

He had done one other thing at Ashland, which he had not done in the ten years before, and had told nobody of it but Lucretia.

The answer was in his pocket-book. It had come up the river in the last week of October from Duralde at New Orleans, who had married his Susan and buried her there, of the yellow fever, fifteen years ago this autumn, and had kept house in that city ever since, with Clay’s grandsons in it, and Lotty. He took it out that first night, when Stanly had gone up, and held it a while by the fire, and did not read it, because he knew what it said.

The act was passed before the judge on the 12th instant, and is recorded, and Lotty and Mary Ann are free women, and have their papers; and Lotty desires me to say that she will stay in my house for wages for the present.

Duralde had never been a man for letters.

He had bought Lotty thirty-four years ago, from a man named Condon who had brought her out of Maryland to Lexington, in the spring of the year she married Aaron, who was his: so that she should not be carried off from her husband, which was more than a good many men in Kentucky would have troubled to see to. She had borne Aaron two children, Charles and Mary Ann, and come east with the household, and kept Clay’s house in New Westminster for the better part of twenty years, very well. And in ‘twenty-nine, when he went out of office, she had gone to law against him in the District’s court, for her own freedom and her children’s, on a promise she said Condon had made her and never written down; and had stayed on in the city by the court’s leave when the household went home, working for wages in another man’s house while the court considered it. The court had found that Condon sold her to Clay without any condition, as Clay’s lawyers had told him from the first it must.

And then he had written from Ashland, in the August of ‘thirty, to his man of business in the city, to have the marshal imprison Lotty, because her conduct had produced insubordination among her relatives at home; and she had been put in the jail at Alexandria, and sent south by sea, not home, to Duralde, so that she should not try it again. Word had come in the December that she had arrived very penitent. He had not thought of the phrase in ten years, and found that he remembered every word of it.

He did not know why he had done it now, and not ten years ago, or ten years hence. It had been a year for counting the dead: Julia in February, and the Queen in June, and he was sixty-three, and his heart went too fast on the stairs; and one night in September, at his desk at Ashland, he had found that he had written out the paper and signed it and sealed it for the river without having quite decided to. That was not true. He had decided to. He had only not decided to decide it, which was a thing he did so often in the House that he had perhaps stopped being able to tell the difference.

He had told Lucretia, and she had said, Well, Mr Clay, as she said everything, and gone on with her work. He had not told Aaron. He had not told Charles.

---

The members came in all that week, by every train and every stage, until men were sleeping two to a bed in the hotels; and the House, which would not sit for three weeks, began to sit already in the parlours and bar-rooms of the Avenue, and on the steps of Parliament House in the cold, in knots of three and four, talking about the King. Clay went among them. It was the best fortnight of any session, the fortnight before it began, when nobody had yet voted on anything; and what they wanted, this November, was to be told what to think.

He did not tell them. He told them that the King was the King, by the law of the Union, and had been since the tenth of June, as the proclamation said; and that the session would go on with the business of the session, the revenue and the bank and the war in Florida and the western rivers, as was right. He said it a hundred times that week, in the same easy words, and saw that it was what they had hoped to hear: that nothing had happened. Crabb came on the Wednesday, and said that he had always known it would come out right, and had told Clay so in March; which he had not. The Georgian came on the Saturday, and they made up the table again that night, for a pound the rubber, with Charles bringing the candles at nine; and at about eleven, sorting his cards, Clay looked round at the three of them in the candlelight and thought that not one of them had ever been told, in so many words, that the Union had settled whose it was in August by agreeing in a hurry and writing nothing down; that if they had been told, they would not have minded in the least; and that this was the whole secret of the Union, and very possibly of its survival, and he did not much like it.

He led a small trump, and took the trick.

---

Adams came back from Quincy on the Monday, the twenty-third, by the evening train; and the note came down the hill at seven on the Tuesday morning, while Clay was being shaved, in the daughter-in-law’s hand, with the old man’s initials an inch high at the foot.

The Governor-General would be obliged by Mr Clay’s attendance at his earliest convenience. J. Q. A.

Clay knew what it was before he had finished reading it. He had known since August, he thought afterwards, that a man who wrote as the King wrote would write again, and that the second letter would not come too late for anything. He did not hurry Charles. Then he took a hack along the Axis in the frost, past the shuttered Palace, and walked up the Rise, and found the old man standing at the study window with his back to the room and his right arm held against his side, as Clay had found him on a summer dawn in July, at the beginning of all this.

“It came last night,” said Adams, without turning round. “At ten, by the same hand as the other, at the same hour. He had held it three days at the legation, waiting for me to come home, because his orders are to put it into my own hand and nobody else’s. He is a very correct man. It is on the desk.”

It lay in its slit cover, with the black seal broken: the running horse again. There were two sheets. The first was a letter of two lines, in the large black hand that went uphill across the paper.

St James’s, 1st November 1840.

Mr Adams, You will read the enclosed to My Parliament at its meeting, in these Words. Ernest R.

The second was a single sheet, close-written on one side, headed in large letters The King’s Speech; and Clay sat down at the desk without being asked, and read it.

My Lords, and Gentlemen,

It has pleased Almighty God to take from Me My beloved Niece, your late Sovereign, in the twenty-second Year of her Age; and I am persuaded that you share with Me the Sorrow of a Loss which no Words of Mine can express, and which no Time can repair.

By her Death the Crown is descended upon Me; and I have taken upon Myself the Government of this, as of every other Part of My Dominions, in humble Reliance upon Divine Providence, and upon the Loyalty and Affection of My People.

I have commanded My Governor-General to declare to you My Pleasure in these My own Words; and it is My Will that he shall in all things act according to the Directions which he shall from time to time receive from Me.

I rely with Confidence upon your Prudence and your Loyalty in the Discharge of the important Duties which are entrusted to you; and I pray that the Blessing of Almighty God may attend your Deliberations.

He read it twice. It was the shortest Speech from the Throne he had ever seen, and the plainest, and he thought, the second time, that it was very likely the best. There was not a word in it that a clerk had put there. Nobody in the Union could object to the first paragraph. The second did not mention the Charter, and made the Union one part of the King’s dominions like any other, like Hanover, which it was not, and had the Crown descend upon him as if by the law of England, which it had not; a lawyer could have spent an afternoon on it, and nobody else would notice. The third paragraph was a gun.

He saw at once what it did, because it was the kind of thing he did himself. Every Speech from the Throne was answered by an Address, and the Address answered the Speech paragraph by paragraph, as a matter of form, so that the House should be seen to have heard every word the Crown had said to it. Nobody read the Address. And an Address that echoed this third paragraph would be the House of Commons of the United Kingdom of America humbly thanking His Majesty for informing it that His Majesty’s Governor-General would henceforth govern it by His Majesty’s directions; and an Address that did not echo it would be a refusal, in the Journal, with a division on it. Four paragraphs, of which three were nothing; and the House could not answer the fourth without deciding the one thing that the whole of August had been spent in not deciding.

He did not think the King knew that. He thought the King had simply written down what he meant, as a soldier would, and that it was the House’s own forms that had made it a trap. That was worse. A man who set traps could be outwitted. A man who only said what he meant could not.

“You will have seen,” said Adams, “that it does not say according to the Charter. Nor by the advice of My Ministers. He did not forget them. One can tell it from what he leaves out.” He came to the desk and looked down at the black hand. “I am bound to lay it before my ministers, and I lay it before you. I shall read to the two Houses on the seventh what my ministers advise me to read, as I have done every year that I have held this office. I shall answer the King myself, in my own hand. He seems to like that.”

“And the House, sir?”

“The House is your affair, Mr Clay. I do not go down to the House.” The old man looked at him over the desk with his red-rimmed eyes. “You will want to keep it from them.”

“I don’t know what I want yet, sir.”

“You always know what you want,” said Adams. “You do not always know how you will get it. I have never known you to confuse the two.” He held out his left hand for the sheets. “My daughter-in-law will make you a copy. The original stays here.”

Clay waited in the hall by the fire while the pen scratched in the study; and when the copy came he put it in his pocket-book, with Duralde’s letter, and walked down the Rise into the town.

---

He showed it to Webster that evening, and to nobody else, at Webster’s lodgings on the Avenue, with the decanter between them and the curtains drawn.

Webster read it by the lamp in his dressing-gown, with his great dark head bent over it under the black brows; and Clay, who had watched him read things for twenty years, watched the stages go by: first the lawyer, then the orator, and a long way behind them both, and generally too late, the politician. The lawyer said that it was flatly contrary to the fourth clause of the second Article, and void in the Union. The orator stood up and walked the room with the paper in his hand. Lay it on the table of the House, he said. Print it. Let the country read what the King of Hanover supposed his Governor-General to be; and give Webster a day to answer it, and they would hear the answer in St James’s.

“I don’t doubt it,” said Clay. “I have heard you answer better men than the King of Hanover. Sit down, Daniel, and I’ll show you why not.”

He did it on the back of the copy, with Webster’s pencil, as he would have done it for a whip. The majority on the bank last session: twenty-two, on a good day. Then two other figures, which he underlined. Twenty-six: the members who sat behind the ministers and had gone into the lobby with the member from the Western Reserve in March, to congratulate the Queen on the freedom of the slaves in her islands, against their own Prime Minister. And thirty-one: the members who sat behind the ministers and came from south of the Potomac and the Ohio, and would go into any lobby in the world rather than that one.

“Either of them is bigger than the majority,” Clay said. “That is the whole of my arithmetic, and has been for four years. A child could do the sum. My trade is to see that nobody ever sets it.”

“I don’t see what the King has to do with your twenty-six.”

“Then let me make your speech for you. You lay that paper on the table, and make the finest speech of your life on the fourth clause of the second Article, and the House cheers you to the roof. And then some gentleman from the low country gets up to thank you. He says that the honourable gentleman has put it better than he ever could: that if the King may direct his Governor-General, then whoever directs the King may do it too; that the King’s ministers in London are the men who freed Jamaica by an Act of their Parliament, with Exeter Hall at their elbow; and that the Charter which the honourable gentleman has defended so nobly is the only thing in the world that stands between his plantation and an Order in Council. And the House cheers him too. And then the member from the Western Reserve gets up at the end of the third bench, in that dry voice of his, and asks whether that would be so very dreadful.” Clay took snuff. “And then we have the question, on the floor, on the first day of the session; and you may make a second speech on it, finer than the first, and the ministry will be out before you sit down.”

Webster was silent for a long time, with the paper on his knee.

“You think of nothing else,” he said.

“It is my trade. I don’t say the King meant it; I doubt he knows we have the question at all. He means that he is the King and the Governor-General is his servant, and he has said so very well. But in this Union you cannot ask whom the Governor-General serves without asking what the King might tell him to do; and you cannot ask that without asking the other thing. It is all one question. The King has only found a door into it that we had forgotten to lock.”

“Then bury it. Adams reads your speech, and answers the King privately, and the thing goes into a drawer.”

“It will not stay there.” Clay picked up his hat. “He wrote it to be read. If it is not read here he will show it to somebody in London, or it will be found, in a year or in ten; and one morning this House will read in a London newspaper what its King sent it and what its ministers kept from it, and it will ask the question of its own accord, out of pure vexation. I cannot stop a House that thinks it has been made a fool of. Nobody can. I would sooner stop the river.” He put the hat on. “I’ll not print it, and I’ll not bury it. Good night, Daniel. Burn the figures.”

“Then what will you do?”

“I don’t know yet,” said Clay, which was very nearly true.

---

The ministers agreed the speech on the Thursday, at Parliament House, in the room behind the Treasury bench, with the fire smoking and the Clerk at the foot of the table with last year’s speech in front of him, for the forms.

It was the ordinary speech. Clay had seen to that. It mourned the late Queen, in a paragraph that he wrote himself and that two of the ministers were found to be blowing their noses over when it was read; it recorded the accession of His Majesty King Ernest the First, according to the Charter, and the proclamation that had made it known; and then it went on, as every speech went on, to the revenue, and the bank, and the war in Florida, and the western rivers, and the estimates. Webster sat at Clay’s right hand and said almost nothing.

The Clerk had copied, by habit, the words with which every Governor-General’s speech had opened since the first: My Lords and Gentlemen, I have it in command from His Majesty to acquaint you. Clay took the pen, and struck out I have it in command from His Majesty, and wrote It is my duty, and initialled the margin.

The Clerk looked up over his spectacles. “It has always stood so, Mr Clay. Since ‘eighty-five.”

“So it has,” said Clay. “This year His Excellency has one command from His Majesty, Mr Clerk, and he is not going to read it. I don’t propose to have him tell the two Houses otherwise.”

The Clerk made a small note in red under the initials, and said nothing at all; and the other ministers, who had not been told what the command was, and had not asked, looked at their papers. The draft went up the Rise that evening for the Governor-General’s observations, and came back on the Friday with none.

---

On the Saturday he went up to Parliament House at noon to see the Speaker, and saw the market instead.

Meacham, who had come in early, as Speakers did, received him in the Speaker’s room on the west front: a long panelled room with a good fire, and three tall windows that looked down the length of the Axis to the Palace and the Rise, and, if a man stood close to the glass and looked to the left, over the south slope of the hill to the low ground and the canal and the river. Every member who had ever sat in Parliament House knew that view, and most of them had learned not to stand close to the glass. Clay stood close to it, because Meacham was finishing a letter, and because he heard the fiddle.

It was coming along the road under the hill from the south side of the Axis, where the high board fence was, and the long low whitewashed house behind it: a long dark column, two by two, with a man on a horse at the head and another at the tail. Clay counted it before he knew he was counting. There were thirty-odd men in front, handcuffed in pairs, with a chain running between the pairs from the first to the last, so that the whole column moved as one thing and stopped when one man stumbled; then the women, roped and not chained; then a wagon with the children and the bundles. They were dressed for a journey, in new coats and hats, as the traders liked to send them; and at the head of the column, beside the man on the horse, walked a tall old man with a fiddle, playing.

The traders liked them to go cheerful through the town. Everybody in New Westminster knew that, and Clay had seen a coffle go down to the wharf perhaps a dozen times in his life, and had never once stood and watched one. He watched this one, as it went along under the hill in the thin November sun, towards the wharf and the Alexandria boat, and the ship at Alexandria, and New Orleans; and the tune came up thin and clear to the window, and Clay knew it.

He had heard it every night all summer, from Mrs Arguelles’s, with the windows open: somewhere down the hill towards the river, every night, the same three tunes. He had supposed it was a sailor, or some free black fiddler at an oyster-house by the wharf, playing for pennies; he had not thought about it at all. It had been part of the summer, like the frogs in the canal. And it had been this: an old man in a pen below the hill, made to play every evening in the yard while the people in the pen were made to dance, to keep their condition for the buyers; and Clay had lain on his bed in June with the window open and listened to it, and written to Lucretia by it, and once, very late, after a dinner, had caught himself humming it on the stairs.

“Every Saturday, about this time of year,” said Meacham, behind him, with his letter in his hand. “The Alexandria boat goes at two.” He stood at the window, big and slow and fair, looking down. “I used to go into the library on Saturdays. The library looks the other way.”

The column turned down towards the river, and the fiddle went with it, fainter, until a warehouse came between; and then there was only the chain for a moment, very faint, and then not that.

“You wanted me about the forms,” said Meacham.

---

He had wanted Meacham about strangers. He put it as a question of practice, the kind a Prime Minister might put to a Speaker in the week before a session about anything at all; and Meacham, who was no fool, and had been in the chair since ‘thirty-seven, answered it as one, and watched him all the while. If a member took notice of strangers, the Speaker was obliged to order them to withdraw. No question was put; none ever had been. One member could do it at any moment, and the galleries were cleared, and the reporters with them, and the doors shut, until the Speaker ordered the strangers readmitted. It had been done twice in his time, both times in the Florida business, and he had not liked it either time.

“And the Journal?”

“The Journal records the proceedings of the House, Mr Clay, not the state of its galleries. If the House does nothing while the strangers are out, the Journal says nothing.”

“And while they are out, may a minister inform the House of a matter? Before the Address, with no question before it?”

“By leave. The House always gives leave. It wants to know.”

“And may anybody answer him?”

“Not if there is no question. There would be nothing to speak to.” Meacham looked at him. “Unless somebody moved the adjournment, so as to speak to that.”

“Then I shall have counted wrong,” said Clay, “and you may hang me from the east steps.”

Meacham did not smile. Clay watched him work it out, slowly, from the bottom up, as he worked out everything, and arrive.

“You are going to tell them something,” he said, “and you don’t want them to answer it.”

“I am going to tell them something, Mr Speaker, so that they need not.”

On the west steps, going down, he found the member from the Western Reserve, with a bundle of petitions under each arm tied up in tape, standing looking at the empty road where the coffle had gone. He had come to lodge his petitions at the Clerk’s office before the session, as he did every year, and had come out, as Clay had, in time to see. He looked up as Clay came down, and did not seem surprised.

“Forty-four,” he said. “I counted them, Mr Clay. I thought you would want the number.”

Clay thought of several things to say, and said none of them, because he saw that the young man would know each of them for what it was before it was out. They stood together a while on the steps in the cold.

“You promised me a day after Easter,” the member said at last, “and you kept your word. I shall want another. After Christmas, this time.”

“You shall have it.”

“And it will be lost.”

“By about the same number. A little more, perhaps.” Clay looked at the road. “I’ll not pretend to you otherwise.”

“Then why do you give it me?”

It was the second time in nine months, Clay thought, that he had stood in front of this young man and looked for something in him that he could use, and found nothing.

“Because you would take it whether I gave it or not,” he said, “and I had rather give it. It costs less. Good day to you, sir. You had better get your petitions indoors before it snows.”

---

On the Monday morning at seven Charles brought up the shaving water and the Clerk’s list of the members arrived, as he always did; and Clay sat in the chair by the window with the towel round his neck and read the list while Charles shaved him.

He had decided on the Saturday night, at the card table, with Crabb talking, that it would be this morning, in this chair, because it was the only time in the day when he and Charles were alone in a room and neither of them could go anywhere. He waited until the left side of his face was done. Then he said it without moving his head, in his ordinary voice, as he would have said that it was going to snow.

“Charles. I have had a letter from Mr Duralde, at New Orleans. Your mother is free, and your sister. It was done before the judge on the twelfth of October, and recorded, and they have their papers. Your mother is to stay in Mr Duralde’s house for wages, for the present.”

The razor stopped.

Clay did not move. He held quite still with his chin up and the lather drying on the right side of his face, and looked at the window; and it came to him that in March, in this chair, it had been he who moved and Charles who stopped, and that he had said Go on, Charles, and Charles had gone on. He did not say it now. He waited, harder than he had ever waited on a division; and knew, as he had known in March in the library with the member from the Western Reserve, that he had no idea what was coming, and nothing in his hands to meet it with.

The suit had named Charles too. He remembered it now, in the chair. Lotty had gone to law for herself and for both her children; and the boy had gone home to Ashland with the household while the court considered it, and had shaved Clay every morning of every session since, and had never once, in Clay’s hearing, said a word of it.

“Thank you, sir,” said Charles; and the razor began again, under the ear, steady and light, as it always was.

That was all. He asked nothing. Clay waited for it through the right side and the lip and the throat, and it did not come; and he never knew whether Charles had known before he was told, from Aaron, or by some road up the river that Clay knew nothing about, or had heard it that moment for the first time. He found that he knew nothing about Charles that Charles had not decided he should know. He could have told you what any member of the House wanted after a quarter of an hour on the steps. He did not know what the man with the razor wanted, and he did not ask, because he was afraid that Charles would tell him.

He had freed the two of them that he did not see. He saw that quite clearly, in the chair. He had freed Lotty and Mary Ann a thousand miles away down the river, by a paper in a sealed packet, where he would never have to look at their faces; and he had not freed Aaron, at Ashland, and he had not freed the man who stood behind him every morning with an open razor at his throat, because he could not do without him. He would free Charles too. He knew that he would. Not yet; in a year or two; when he could spare him. He thought it was very likely the truest thing he had ever known about himself, and he did not like it, and he did not pretend to himself that it was not so.

Charles wiped his face, and took the towel, and went down with the basin.

---

That night he counted the House.

He did it at Mrs Arguelles’s table when the others had gone up, by one candle, with the Clerk’s list and a pencil, as he did every year in the week before the session, member by member: who had come, and who was ill, and who had married a wife in the summer who would not let him dine out, and who owed money to whom, and who wanted a post office, and who would vote with the ministry on the bank and against it on the tariff. It took him three hours. It came out as it always came out, near enough: a majority of twenty-two on a good day, with the twenty-six on one side of it and the thirty-one on the other.

Then he took out the copy of the King’s speech and read it again, and knew what he would do.

He would neither print it nor bury it. He would tell them. On the seventh, when the Commons came back from the Lords with the Speech in their ears, and the Speaker had reported it, and before anybody rose to move the Address, he would get up in his place; and Stanly, who would be told that morning and not before, would take notice of strangers, and Meacham would clear the galleries and shut the doors. And then Clay would tell the House, with nothing before it, what the King had sent, word for word, all four paragraphs, without comment; and what the Governor-General had read instead, and why, which was that he had read what his ministers advised, as every Governor-General had done since ‘eighty-five; and that the Governor-General would answer the King. Then he would sit down, and nobody would answer him, because there would be nothing to answer; and the strangers would be readmitted, and somebody would move the Address, and the session would begin.

They would know. That was the whole of it. Every one of them would know, the twenty-six and the thirty-one and the Popular Democrats and the member from the Western Reserve, all at once, from him, in the same words; and each would know that all the others knew. They would go out into the lobbies afterwards and find that they had become, without being asked and without a vote, the keepers of a thing. Clay had never yet seen a House that had been told a secret by its Prime Minister go about asking questions of it. It was too proud of having been told. And when the thing came out at last, as it would, in some London newspaper, the House would not be surprised; and a House that was not surprised would not be frightened; and a House that was not frightened would not need to vote. That was what he meant by stiffening it: that two hundred men who agreed about nothing should stand together on one thing, all winter, without ever having been asked to agree about it.

It was a compromise, he supposed. He had made a great many.

Outside it had begun to snow again, very fine and slow; and somewhere down the hill towards the river, under the snow, the fiddle was playing. The old man had come back from the wharf, then, as he must come back every Saturday. He was not for sale. He was the trader’s, and played them down to the boat; and he would play the same three tunes, Clay supposed, all winter, while the House sat.

He added it up once more before he went to bed, as he added everything: a majority of twenty-two; twenty-six; thirty-one; forty-four on the road; two women free at New Orleans; one old man under the hill with a fiddle; one King, who had said what he meant; and one man asleep in the chair by the door, whom he would free in a year or two, when he could spare him. It came out, as it always came out, exactly even.

Then he woke Charles, and sent him to bed, and took his candle, and went up.