A door opened, and in was thrust the head of a man whose blue coat betokened a servant, and whose manner declared a rustic.
"Dod, then your worship be up!" said this fellow, awkwardly entering. "Young mistress did vow she heard somewhat stirring. I ask your worship's pardon. If your worship had called—" He set about trussing the points of the captain's doublet and hose.
"Who art thou?" asked Ravenshaw.
"Your servant, sir. To tell truth, sir, Master Etheridge's servant, sir; but yours while you be here, your worship."
"Master Etheridge? Master Bartlemy Etheridge, meanest thou?"
"Yes, sir, by your leave, sir. He bade me attend in the gallery here, sir, to serve your worship an you called."
"This is his house, then?"
"Yes, sir; his country-seat, your worship,—not that he hath any town house, begging your pardon."
"How came I here?"
"Dod, upon a stable door we found loose at Marshleigh Grange last night. I'fecks, I'll never forget such rain; and to be roused out of bed in the black o' the night, too! But as to fetching your worship hither, the young mistress wouldn't come if you were left; so master must needs bid us seek somewhat to bear you hither upon. And never once you woke, e'en when me and Dick took off your clothes and put you to bed."