"_Is_ he drowned, or is it only a ducking? Come, bring me to the place.
Dead men don't usually want a fire, or consult doctors. I'll see for
myself."

So Sir Bale Mardykes, pale and grim, accompanied by the light-footed
Mrs. Julaper, strode along the passages, and was led by her into the old
still-room, which had ceased to be used for its original purpose. All
the servants in the house were now collected there, and three men also
who lived by the margin of the lake; one of them thoroughly drenched,
with rivulets of water still trickling from his sleeves, water along the
wrinkles and pockets of his waistcoat and from the feet of his trousers,
and pumping and oozing from his shoes, and streaming from his hair down
the channels of his cheeks like a continuous rain of tears.

The people drew back a little as Sir Bale entered with a quick step and
a sharp pallid frown on his face. There was a silence as he stooped over
Philip Feltram, who lay on a low bed next the wall, dimly lighted by two
or three candles here and there about the room.

He laid his hand, for a moment, on his cold wet breast.

Sir Bale knew what should be done in order to give a man in such a case
his last chance for life. Everybody was speedily put in motion. Philip's
drenched clothes were removed, hot blankets enveloped him, warming-pans
and hot bricks lent their aid; he was placed at the prescribed angle, so
that the water flowed freely from his mouth. The old expedient for
inducing artificial breathing was employed, and a lusty pair of bellows
did duty for his lungs.