“Do you feel ill, sir?” I inquired.

“Jane, I’ve got a blow; I’ve got a blow, Jane!” he staggered.

Then he sat down and made me sit beside him.

“My little friend,” said he, “I wish I were in a quiet island with only you; and trouble and danger and hideous recollections were removed from me.”

“Can I help you, sir?  I’d give my life to serve you.”

“Jane, if aid is wanted, I’ll seek it at your hands.”

“Thank you, sir; tell me what to do.”

“Go back into the room; step quietly up to Mason, tell him Mr. Rochester has come and wishes to see him; show him in here, and then leave me.”

At a late hour that night I heard the visitors repair to their chambers and Mr. Rochester saying:  “This way, Mason; this is your room.”

He spoke cheerfully, and the gay tones set my heart at ease.

Awaking in the dead of night I stretched my hand to draw the curtain, for the moon was full and bright.  Good God!  What a cry!  The night was rent in twain by a savage, shrilly sound that ran from end to end of Thornfield Hall.

The cry died and was not renewed.  Indeed, whatever being uttered that fearful shriek could not soon repeat it; not the widest-winged condor on the Andes could, twice in succession, send out such a yell from the cloud shrouding his eyrie.

It came out of the third storey.  And overhead—­yes, in the room just above my chamber, I heard a deadly struggle, and a half-smothered voice shout, “Help! help!”

A chamber door opened; someone rushed along the gallery.  Another step stamped on the floor above, and something fell.  Then there was silence.

The sleepers were all aroused and gathered in the gallery, which but for the moonlight would have been in complete darkness.  The door at the end of the gallery opened, and Mr. Rochester advanced with a candle.  He had just descended from the upper storey.

“All’s right!” he cried.  “A servant has had a nightmare, that is all, and has taken a fit with fright.  Now I must see you all back to your rooms.”  And so by dint of coaxing and commanding he contrived to get them back to their dormitories.

I retreated unnoticed and dressed myself carefully to be ready for emergencies.  About an hour passed, and then a cautious hand tapped low at my door.

“Are you up and dressed?”

“Yes.”

“Then come out quietly.”

Mr. Rochester stood in the gallery holding a light.

“Bring a sponge and some volatile salts,” said he.

I did so, and followed him.

“You don’t turn sick at the sight of blood?”

“I think not; I have never been tried yet.”

We entered a room with an inner apartment, from whence came a snarling, snatching sound.  Mr. Rochester went forward into this apartment, and a shout of laughter greeted his entrance.  Grace Poole, then, was there.  When he came out he closed the door behind him.