Eth.Yes,
He is my squire—a poor, half-witted churl,
Enter Lutin unobserved.
Who shudders at the rustling of a leaf;
A strange, odd, faithful, loving, timid knave;
More dog than man, and, like a well-thrashed hound,
He loves his master’s voice, and dreads it, too.
Why, here he is! (In intense astonishment.)
Lut.Who is this insolent,
A mortal here in fairy land?