As he left Percy’s house, midnight tolled out on the clock of the Abbey. The fifth of November had begun.
Sir Thomas Knevet left his prisoner under guard, and returned to the King. Late as it was, his Majesty had not retired. The members of the Council who were at hand—for some always slept in the Palace—were called in, the gates secured, a cordon of troops set across King Street, and another at Charing Cross. The remainder of the Council in Town had been sent for, and as soon as they arrived, about one o’clock a.m., the King sat at their head in his bedchamber, and Fawkes was brought in and placed before them.
Nothing quelled the spirit of Guy Fawkes. The councillors were eager, impatient, vehement: he was calm as a summer eve, cool as the midnight snow. To their hurried queries he returned straightforward, unabashed, imperturbable answers, still keeping up his character of an ignorant rustic.
“Tell us, fellow, why that store of gunpowder was laid in?”
“To blow up the Parliament House,” said Fawkes. “When should it have been executed?”
“To-morrow, when the King had come, and the Upper House was sitting.”
“Of whom?”
“Of myself.”
“How knew you that the King would come?”
“Only by report, and the making ready his barge.”