VII

HE was kept waiting for some time. More than once he heard in the next room

the sounds of smothered laughter and two voices, pitched in a confidential

tone: the one with persistent appeal, the other with persistent refusal. At

last there reached him the laughter of a merry agreement, and Amy entered

the room, holding Kitty Poythress by the hand.

She had been looking all day for her lost bundle. Now she was tired; worried

over the loss of her things which had been bought by her aunt at great cost

and self-sacrifice; and disappointed that she should not be able to go to

the ball on Thursday evening. It was to be the most brilliant assemblage of

the aristocratic families of the town that had ever been known in the

wilderness and the first endeavour to transplant beyond the mountains the

old social elegance of Williamsburg, Annapolis, and Richmond. Not to be seen

in the dress that Mrs. Falconer, dreaming of her own past, had deftly

made--not to have her beauty reign absolute in that scene of lights and

dance and music--it was the long, slow crucifixion of all the impulses of

her gaiety and youth.

She did not wish to see any one to-night, least of all John Gray with whom

she had had an engagement to go. No doubt he had come to ask why she had

broken it in the note which she had sent him that morning. She had not

given him any reason in the note; she did not intend to give him the reason

now. He would merely look at her in his grave, reproachful, exasperating way

and ask what was the difference: could she not wear some other dress? or

what great difference did it make whether she went at all? He was always

ready to take this manner of patient forbearance toward her, as though she

were one of his school children. To-night she was in no mood to have her

troubles treated as trifles or herself soothed like an infant that was

crying to be rocked.

She walked slowly into the room, dragging Kitty behind her. She let him

press the tips of her unbending fingers, pouted, smiled faintly, dropped

upon a divan by Kitty's side, strengthened her hold on Kitty's hand, and

fixed her eyes on Kitty's hair.

"Aren't you tired?" she said, giving it an absorbed caressing stroke, with a

low laugh. "I am."

"I am going to look again to-morrow, Kitty," she continued, brightening up

with a decisive air, "and the next day and the next." She kept her face

turned aside from John and did not include him in the conversation. Women

who imagine themselves far finer ladies than this child was treat a man in

this way--rarely--very rarely--say, once in the same man's lifetime.

"We are both so tired," she drowsily remarked at length, turning to John

after some further parley which he did not understand and tapping her mouth

prettily with the palm of her hand to fight away a yawn. "You know we've

been riding all day. And William Penn is at death's door with hunger. Poor

William Penn! I'm afraid he'll suffer to-night at the tavern stable. They

never take care of him and feed him as I do at home. He is so unhappy when

be is hungry; and when he is unhappy, I am. And he has to be rubbed down so

beautifully, or he doesn't shine."

The tallow candles, which had been lighted when he came, needed snuffing by

this time. The light was so dim that she could not see his face--blanched

with bewilderment and pain and anger. What she did see as she looked across

the room at him was his large black figure in an absent-minded awkward

posture and his big head held very straight and high as though it were

momentarily getting higher. He had remained simply silent. His silence

irritated her; and she knew she was treating him badly and that irritated

her with him all the more. She sent one of her light arrows at him barbed

with further mischief.

"I wish, as you go back, you would stop at the stable and see whether they

have mistreated him in any way. He takes things so hard when they don't go

to suit him," and she turned to Kitty and laughed significantly.

Then she heard him clear his throat, and in a voice shaking with passion, he

said:

"Give your orders to a servant."

A moment of awkward silence followed. She did not recognize that voice as

his or such rude, unreasonable words.

"I suppose you want to know why I broke my engagement with you," she said,

turning toward him aggrievedly and as though the subject could no longer be

waived. "But I don't think you ought to ask for the reason. You ought to

accept it without knowing it."

"I do accept it. I had never meant to ask."

He spoke as though the whole affair were not worth recalling. She could not

agree with him in this, and furthermore his manner administered a rebuke.

"Oh, don't be too indifferent," she said sarcastically, looking to Kitty for

approval. If you cared to go to the party with me, you are supposed to be

disappointed."

"I am disappointed," he replied briefly, but still with the tone of wishing

to be done with the subject. Amy rose and snuffed the candles.

"And you really don't care to know why I broke my engagement?" she

persisted, returning to her seat and seeing that she worried him.

"Not unless you should wish to tell me."

"But you should wish to know, whether I tell you or not. Suppose it were not

a good reason?"

"I hadn't supposed you'd give me a poor one."

"At least, it's serious, Kitty."

"I had never doubted it."

"It might be amusing to you."

"It could hardly be both."

"Yes; it is both. It is serious and it is amusing."

He made no reply but by an impatient gesture.

"And you really don't wish to know?"He sat silent and still.

"Then, I'll tell you: I lost the only reason I had for going," and she and

Kitty exchanged a good deal of laughter of an innocent kind.

The mood and the motive with which he had sought her made him feel that he

was being unendurably trifled with and he rose. But at the same moment Kitty

effected an escape and he and Amy were left alone.

She looked quickly at the door through which Kitty had vanished, dropped her

arms at her sides and uttered a little sigh of inexpressible relief.

"Sit down," she said, repeating her grimace at absent Kitty.

"You are not going! I want to talk to you. Isn't Kitty dreadful?"

Her voice and manner had changed. There was no one now before whom she could

act--no one to whom she could show that she could slight him, play with him.

Furthermore, she had gotten some relief from the tension of her ill humour

by what she had already said; and now she really wanted to see him. The ill

humour had not been very deep; nothing in her was very deep. And she was

perfectly sincere again--for the moment. What does one expect?

"Don't look so solemn," she said with mock ruefulness. "You make me feel as

though you had come to baptize me, as though you had to wash away my sins.

Come here!" and she laid her hand invitingly on the chair that Kitty had

vacated at her side.

He stood bolt upright in the middle of the room, looking down at her in

silence. Then he walked slowly over and took the seat. She folded her hands

over the back of her own chair, laid her cheek softly down on them and

looked up with a smile--subdued, submissive, fond, absolutely his.

"Don't be cross!" she pleaded, with a low laugh full of maddening music to

him.

He could not speak to her or look at her for anger and shame and

disappointment; so she withdrew one hand from under her cheek and folded it

softly over the back of his--his was pressed hard down on the cap of his

knee--and took hold of his big finders one by one, caressing them.

"Don't be cross!" she pleaded. "Be good to me! I'm tired and unhappy!"

Still he would not speak, or look at her; so she put her hand back under her

cheek again, and with a patient little sigh closed her eyes as though she

had done all she could. The next moment she leaned over and let her forehead

rest on the back of his hand."You are so cross!" she said. "I don't like

you!"

"Amy!" he cried, turning fiercely on her and catching her hand cruelly in

his, "before I say anything else to you, you've got to promise me--"And then

he broke down and then went on again foolishly--,you've got to promise me

one thing now. You sha'n't treat me in one way when we are by ourselves and

go in another way when other people are present. If you love me, as you

always make me believe you do when we are alone, you must make the whole

world believe it!"

"What right would I have to make the whole world believe I loved you?" she

asked, looking at him quizzically.

"I'll give you the right!"

The rattle of china at the cupboard in the next room was heard. Amy started

up and skipped across the room to the candle on the mantelpiece.

"If Kitty does come back in here--" she said, in a disappointed undertone;

and with the snuffers between her thumb and forefinger, she snipped them

bitingly several times at the door.

The door was opened slightly, a plate was thrust through, and a laughing

voice called apologetically:

"Amy!"

"Come in here! Come in!" commanded Amy, delightedly; and as Kitty

reluctantly entered, she fixed upon her a telling look. "Upon my word," she

said, "what do you mean by treating me this way?" and catching Kitty's eye,

she made a grimace at John.

Kitty offered the candy to John with the assurance that it was made out of

that year's maple sugar in their own camp.

"He never eats sweet things and he doesn't care for trifles: bring it here!"

And the girls seated themselves busily side by side on the opposite side of

the room. Amy bent over the plate and chose the largest, beautiful white

plait."Now there'll be a long silence," she said, holding it up between her

dainty fingers and settling herself back in her chair. "But, Kitty, you

talk. And if you do leave your company again!--" She threatened Kitty

charmingly.

He was in his room again, thinking it all over. She had not known why he had

come: how could she know? To her it meant simply an ordinary call at an

unfortunate hour; for she was tired--he could see that--and worried--he

could see that also. And he!--had he ever been so solemn, so implacably in

earnest, so impatient of the playfulness which at another time he would have

found merely amusing? Why was he all at once growing so petty with her and

exacting? Little by little he went over the circumstances judicially, in an

effort to restore her to lovable supremacy over his imagination.

His imagination--for his heart was not in it. He wrought out her entire

acquittal, but it did no good. Who at any time sounds the depths of the mind

which, unlike the sea, can regain calm on the surface and remain troubled by

a tempest at the bottom? What is the name of that imperial faculty dwelling

within it which can annul the decisions of the other associated powers?

After he had taken the entire blame upon himself, his rage and

disappointment were greater than ever.

Was it nothing for her to break her engagement with him and then to follow

it up with treatment like that? Was it nothing to force Kitty into the

parlour despite the silent understanding reached by all three long ago that

whenever he called at the Poythress home, he would see her alone? Was it

nothing to take advantage of his faithfulness to her, and treat him as

though he had no spirit? Was it nothing to be shallow and silly herself?

Was it nothing--and ah! here was the trouble at the bottom of it all! Here

was the strain of conviction pressing sorely, steadily in upon him through

the tumult of his thoughts--was it nothing for her to be insincere? Did she

even know what sincerity was? Would he marry an insincere woman? Insincerity

was a growth not only ineradicable, but sure to spread over the nature as

one grew older. He knew young people over whose minds it had begun to creep

like the mere slip of a plant up a wall; old ones over whose minds it lay

like a poisonous creeper hiding a rotting ruin. To be married and sit

helplessly by and see this growth slowly sprouting outward from within,

enveloping the woman he loved, concealing her, dragging her down--an

unarrestable disease--was that to be his fate?

Was it already taking palpable possession of Amy? Could he hide his eyes any

longer to the fact that he had felt its presence in her all the time--in its

barely discoverable stages? What else could explain her conduct in allowing

him, whenever they were alone, to think that she was fond of him, and then

scattering this belief to the winds whenever others were present? Was this

what Mrs. Falconer had meant? He could never feel any doubt of Mrs.

Falconer. Merely to think of her now had the effect of instantly clearing

the whole atmosphere for his baffled, bewildered mind.So the day ended. He

had been beaten, routed, and by forces how insignificant! Bitterly he

recalled his lesson to the children that morning. What a McGary he had

been--reckless, overconfident, knowing neither theplan nor the resources of

the enemy! He recalled his boast to Mrs. Falconer the day before, that he

had never been defeated and that now he would proceed to carry out the plans

of his life without interruption.

But to-morrow evening, Amy would not be going to the ball. She would be

alone. Then he would not go. He must find out all that he wished to know--or

all that he did not.

VIII

THE evening of the ball had come at last.Not far from John's school on the

square stood another log cabin, from which another and much more splendid

light streamed out across the wilderness: this being the printing room and

book-bindery of the great Mr. John Bradford. His portrait, scrutinized now

from the distance and at the disadvantage of a hundred years, hands him down

to posterity as a bald-headed man with a seedy growth of hair sprouting

laterally from his temples, so that his ears look like little flat-boats

half hidden in little canebrakes; with mutton-chop whiskers growing far up

on the overhanging ledges of his cheek-bones and suggesting rather a daring

variety of lichen; with a long arched nose, running on its own hook in a

southwesterly direction; one eye a little higher than the other; a

protruding upper lip, as though he had behind it a set of the false teeth of

the time, which were fixed into the jaws by springs and hinges, all but

compelling a man to keep his mouth shut by main force; and a very short neck

with an overflowing jowl which weighed too heavily on his high shirt collar.

Despite his maligning portrait a foremost personage of his day, of

indispensable substance, of invaluable port: Revolutionary soldier, Indian

warrior; editor and proprietor of the Kentucky Gazette, the first newspaper

in the wilderness; binder of its first books--some of his volumes still

surviving on musty, forgotten shelves; senatorial elector; almanac-maker,

taking his ideas from the greater Mr. Franklin of Philadelphia, as Mr.

Franklin may have derived his from the still greater Mr. Jonathan Swift of

London; appointed as chairman of the board of trustees to meet the first

governor of the State when he had ridden into the town three years before

and in behalf of the people of the new commonwealth which had been carried

at last triumphantly into the Union, to bid his excellency welcome in an

address conceived in the most sonorous English of the period; and afterwards

for many years author of the now famous "Notes," which will perhaps make his

name immortal among American historians.

On this evening of the ball at the home of General James Wilkinson, the

great Mr. Bradford was out of town, and that most unluckily; for the

occasion--in addition to all the pleasure that it would furnish to the

ladies--was designed as a means of calling together the leaders of the

movement to separate Kentucky from the Union; and the idea may have been,

that the great Mr. Bradford, having written one fine speech to celebrate her

entrance, could as easily turn out a finer one to celebrate her withdrawal.

It must not be inferred that his absence had any political significance. He

had merely gone a few days previous to the little settlement at

Georgetown--named for the great George--to lay in a supply of paper for his

Weekly, and had been detained there by heavy local rains, not risking so dry

an article of merchandise either by pack-horse or open wagon under the

dripping trees. Paper was very scarce in the wilderness and no man could

afford to let a single piece get wet.

In setting out on his journey, he had instructed his sole assistant--a young

man by the name of Charles O'Bannon--as to his duties in the meantime: he

was to cut some new capital letters out of a block of dog-wood in the

office, and also some small letters where the type fell short; to collect if

possible some unpaid subscriptions--this being one of the advantages that an

editor always takes of his own absence--in particular to call upon certain

merchants for arrears in advertisements; and he was to receive any lost

articles that might be sent in to be advertised, or return such as should be

called for by their owners: with other details appertaining to the

establishment.

O'Bannon had performed his duties as he had been told--reserving for

himself, as always, the right of a personal construction. He had addressed a

written appeal to the nonpaying subscribers, declaring that the Gazette had

now become a Try-Weekly, since Mr. Bradford had to try hard every week to

get it out by the end; he had collected from several delinquent advertisers;

whittled out three new capital letters, and also the face of Mr. Bradford

and one of his legs; taken charge with especial interest of the department

of Lost and Found and was now ready for other duties.

On this evening of the ball he was sitting in the office.

In one corner of the room stood a worn handpress with two dog-skin

inking-balls. Between the logs of the wall near another corner a horizontal

iron bar had been driven, and from the end of this bar hung a saucer-shaped

iron lamp filled with bear-oil. Out of this oil stuck the end of a cotton

rag for a wick; which, being set on fire, filled the room with a strong

smell and a feeble, murky, flickering light. Under the lamp stood a plain

oak slab on two pairs of crosslegs; and on the slab were papers and letters,

a black ink-horn, some leaves of native tobacco, and a large gray-horn

drinking-cup--empty. Under the table was a lately emptied bottle.O'Bannon

sat in a rough chair before this drinking-cup, smoking a long tomahawk-pipe.

His head was tilted backward, his eyes followed the flight of smoke upward.

That he expected to be at the party might have been inferred from his dress:

a blue broadcloth coat with yellow gilt buttons; a swan's-down waistcoat

with broad stripes of red and white; a pair of dove-coloured corded-velvet

pantaloons with three large yellow buttons on the hips; and a neckcloth of

fine white cam- bric.His figure was thickset, strong, cumbrous; his hair

black, curly, shining. His eyes, bold, vivacious, and now inflamed, were of

that rarely beautiful blue which is seen only in members of the Irish race.

His complexion was a blending of the lily and the rose. His lips were thick

and red under his short fuzzy moustache. His hands also were thick and soft,

always warm, and not very clean--on account of the dog-skin inking-balls.

He had two ruling passions: the influence he thought himself entitled to

exert over women; and his disposition to play practical jokes on men. Both

the first and the second of these weaknesses grew out of his confidence that

he had nothing to fear from either sex. Nevertheless he had felt forced to

admit that his charms had never prevailed with Amy Falconer. He had often

wondered how she could resist; but she had resisted without the least

effort. Still, he pursued, and he had once told her with smiling candour

that if she did not mind the pursuit, he did not mind the chase. Only, he

never urged it into the presence of Mrs. Falconer, of whom alone he stood in

speechless, easily comprehensible awe. Perhaps to-night--as Amy had never

seen him in ball-dress--she might begin to succumb; he had just placed her

under obligation to him by an unexpected stroke of good fortune; and finally

he had executed one neat stratagem at the expense of Mr. Bradford and

another at the expense of John Gray. So that esteeming himself in a fair way

to gratify one passion and having already gratified the other, he leaned

back in his chair, smiling, smoking, drinking.

He had just risen to pinch the wick in the lamp overhead when a knock

sounded on the door, and to his surprise and displeasure--for he thought he

had bolted it--there entered without waiting to be bidden a low,

broadchested, barefooted, blond fellow, his brown-tow breeches rolled up to

his knees, showing a pair of fine white calves; a clean shirt thrown open at

the neck and rolled up to the elbows, displaying a noble pair of arms; a

ruddy shine on his good-humoured face; a drenched look about his short,

thick, whitish hair; and a comfortable smell of soap emanating from his

entire person.

Seeing him, O'Bannon looked less displeased; but keeping his seat and merely

taking the pipe from his lips, he said, with an air of sarcasm, "I would

have invited you to come in, Peter, but I see you have not waited for the

invitation."

Peter deigned no reply; but walking forward, he clapped down on the oak slab

a round handful of shillings and pence. "Count it, and see if it's all

there," he said, taking a short cob pipe out of his mouth and planting his

other hand stoutly on his hip.

"What's this for?" O'Bannon spoke in a tone of wounded astonishment.

"What do you suppose it's for? Didn't I hear you've been out collecting?"

"Well, you have had an advertisement running in the paper for some time."

"That's what it's for then! And what's more, I've got the money to pay for a

better one, whenever you'll write it."

"Sit down, sit down, sit down!" O'Bannon jumped from his chair, hurried

across the room--a little unsteadily--emptied a pile of things on the floor,

and dragged back a heavy oak stool. "Sit down. And Peter?" he added

inquiringly, tapping his empty drinking-cup.

Peter nodded his willingness. O'Bannoli drew a key from his pocket and shook

it temptingly under Peter's nose. Then he bolted the door and unlocked the

cupboard, displaying a shelf filled with bottles.

"All for advertisements!" he said, waving his hand at the collection. "And a

joke on Mr. Bradford. Fourth-proof French brandy, Jamaica rum, Holland gin,

cherry bounce, Martinique cordial, Madeira, port, sherry, cider. All for

advertisements! Two or three of these dealers have been running bills up,

and to-day I stepped in and told them we'd submit to be paid in merchandise

of this kind. And here's the merchandise. What brand of merchandise will

you take?"

"We had better take what you have been taking."

"As you please." He brought forward another drinking-cup and a bottle.

"Hold on!" cried Peter, laying a hand on his arm. "My advertisement first!"

"As you please."

"About twice as long as the other one," instructed Peter.

"As you please." O'Bannon set the bottle down, took up a goose-quill, and

drew a sheet of paper before him.

"My business is increasing," prompted Peter still further, with a puzzled

look as to what should come next. "Put that in!"

"Of course," said O'Bannon. "I always put that in."

He was thinking impatiently about the ball and he wrote out something

quickly and read it aloud with a thick, unsteady utterance:

"'Mr. Peter Springle continues to carry on the blacksmith business opposite

the Sign of the Indian Queen. Mr. Springle cannot be rivalled in his shoeing

of horses. He keeps on hand a constant supply of axes, chains, and hoes,

which he will sell at prices usually asked--'"

"Stop," interrupted Peter who had sniffed a strange, delicious odour of

personal praise in the second sentence. "You might say something more about

me, before you bring in the axes."

"As you please."

"'Mr. Peter Springle executes his work with satisfaction and despatch; his

work is second to none in Kentucky; no one surpasses him; he is a noted

horseshoer; he does nothing but shoe horses.'" He looked at Peter

inquiringly.

"That sounds more like it," admitted Peter.

"Is that enough?"

"Oh, if that's all you can say!""'Mr. Springle devotes himself entirely to

the shoeing of fine horses; fine horses are often injured by neglect in

shoeing; Mr. Springle does not injure fine horses, but shoes them all around

with new shoes at one dollar for each horse.'"

"Better," said Peter." Only, don't say so much about the horses! Say more

about--"

"'Mr. Springle is the greatest blacksmith that ever left New Jersey--'""Or

that ever lived I'll New Jersey."

O'Bannon rose and pinched the cotton wick, seized the bottle, and poured out

more liquor.

"Peter," he said, squaring himself, "I'm going to let you into a secret. If

you were not drunk, I wouldn't tell you. You'll forget it by morning."

"If I were half as drunk as you are, I couldn't listen," retorted Peter. "I

don't want to know any secrets. I tell everything I know."

"You don't know any secrets? You don't know that last week Horatio Turpin

sold a ten dollar horse in front of your shop for a hundred because he

had--"

"Oh, I know some secrets about horses," admitted Peter, carelessly.

"It's a secret about a horse I'm going to tell you," said O'Bannon.

"Here is an advertisement that has been left to be inserted in the next

paper: 'Lost, on Tuesday evening, on the road between Frankfort and

Lexington, a bundle of clothes tied up in a blue-and-white checked cotton

neckerchief, and containing one white muslin dress, a pale-blue silk coat,

two thin white muslin handkerchiefs, one pair long kid gloves--straw

colour--one pair white kid shoes, two cambric handkerchiefs, and some other

things. Whoever will deliver said clothes to the printer, or give

information so that they can be got, will be liberally rewarded on

application to him.'

"And here, Peter, is another advertisement. Found, on Tuesday evening, on

the road between Lexington and Frankfort, a bundle of clothes tied in a

blue-and-white neckerchief. The owner can recover property by calling on the

printer.'"

He pushed the papers away from him.

"Yesterday morning who should slip around here but Amy Falconer. And then,

in such a voice, she began. How she had come to town the day before, and had

brought her party dress. How the bundle was lost. How she had come to

inquire whether any one had left the clothes to be advertised; or whether I

wouldn't put an advertisement in the paper; or, if they were left at my

office before Thursday evening, whether I wouldn't send them to her at

once."

"Ahem!" said Peter drily, but with moisture in his eyes.

"She hadn't more than gone before who should come in here but a boy bringing

this same bundle of clothes with a note from John Gray, saying that he had

found them in the public road yesterday, and asking me to send them at once

to the owner, if I should hear who she was; if not, to advertise them."

"That's no secret," said Peter contemptuously.

"I might have sent that bundle straight to the owner of it. But, when I have

anything against a man, I always forgive him, only I get even with him

first."

"What are you hammering at?" cried Peter, bringing his fist down on the

table. "Hit the nail on the head."

"Now I've got no grudge against her," continued O'Bannon. "I'd hate her if I

could. I've tried hard enough, but I can't. She may treat me as she pleases:

it's all the same to me as soon as she smiles. But as for this redheaded

Scotch-Irishman--"

"Stop!" said Peter. "Not a word against him!" O'Bannon stared.

"He's no friend of yours," said he, reflectively.

"He is!"

"Oh, is he? Well, only the other day I heard him say that he thought a good

deal more of your shoes than he did of you," cried O'Bannon, laughing

sarcastically.

Peter made no reply, but his neck seemed to swell and his face to be getting

purple.

"And he's a friend of yours? I can't even play a little joke on him."

"Play your joke on him!" exclaimed Peter, "and when my time comes, I'll play

mine."

"When he sent the bundle here yesterday morning I could have returned it

straight to her. I locked it in that closet! 'You'll never go to the ball

with her,' I said, 'if I have to keep her away.' I set my trap. To-day I

hunted up Joseph Holden. 'Come by the office, as you are on your way to the

party to-night,' I said. 'I want to talk to you about a piece of land. Come

early; then we can go together.' When he came--just before you did--I said,

'Look here, did you know that Amy wouldn't be at the ball? She lost her

clothes as she was coming to town the other day, and somebody has just sent

them here to be advertised. I think I'd better take them around to her yet:

it's not too late.' 'I'll take them! I'll go with her myself!' he

cried,jumping up.

"So she'll be there, he'll be there, I'll be there, we'll all be there--but

your John can hear about it in the morning." And O'Bannon arose slowly, but

unexpectedly sat down again.

"You think I won't be there," he said threateningly to Peter.

"You think I'm drunk. I'll show you! I'll show you that I can walk--that I

can dance--dance by myself --do it all--by myself--furnish the music and do

the dancing."

He began whistling "Sir Roger de Coverley," and stood up, but sank down

again and reached for the bottle.

"Peter," he said with a soft smile, looking down at his gorgeous swan's-down

waistcoat and his well-shaped dove-coloured legs: "ain't I a beauty?"

"Yes, you are a beauty!" said Peter.

Suddenly lifting one of his bare feet, he shot O'Bannon as by the action of

a catapult against the printing-press.

He lay there all night.