"Nick!" He tossed the chair from him and vanished into the adjoining room to reappear a moment later carrying basin and ewer, and a shirt of Trenchard's--the first piece of linen he could find.
She was half fainting, and she let him have his swift, masterful way.
He bathed her hand, and was relieved to find that the injury was none so great as the flow of blood had made him fear.

He tore Trenchard's fine cambric shirt to shreds--a matter on which Trenchard afterwards commented in quotations from at least three famous Elizabethan dramatists.

He bound up her hand, just as Nick made his appearance at the splintered door, his mouth open, his pipe, gone out, between his fingers.

He was followed by a startled serving-wench, the only other person in the house, for every one was out of doors that night.
Into the woman's care Wilding delivered his wife, and without a word to her he left the room, dragging Trenchard with him.

It was striking nine as they went down the stairs, and the sound brought as much satisfaction to Ruth above as dismay to Wilding below..