“Here, Jane!” he said.

I walked round to the other side of the large bed in the outer room, and there, in an easy-chair, his head leaned back, I recognised the pale and seemingly lifeless face of the stranger, Mason.  His linen on one side and one arm was almost soaked in blood.

Mr. Rochester took the sponge, dipped it in water, moistened the corpse-like face, and applied my smelling-bottle to the nostrils.

Mr. Mason unclosed his eyes and murmured:  “Is there immediate danger?”

“Pooh!—­a mere scratch!  I’ll fetch a surgeon now, and you’ll be able to be removed by the morning.”

“Jane,” he continued, “you’ll sponge the blood when it returns, and put your salts to his nose; and you’ll not speak to him on any pretext—­and, Richard, it will be at the peril of your life if you speak to her.”

Two hours later the surgeon came and removed the injured man.

In the morning I heard Rochester in the yard, saying to some of the visitors, “Mason got the start of you all this morning; he was gone before sunrise.  I rose to see him off.”

III.—­The Shadowy Walk

A splendid midsummer shone over England.  In the sweetest hour of the twenty-four, after the sun had gone down in simple state, and dew fell cool on the panting plain, I had walked into the orchard, to the giant horse-chestnut, near the sunk fence that separates the Hall grounds from the lonely fields, when there came to me the warning fragrance of Mr. Rochester’s cigar.  I was about to retreat when he intercepted me, and said:  “Turn back, Jane; on so lovely a night it is a shame to sit in the house.”  I did not like to walk alone with my master at this hour in the shadowy orchard, but could find no reason for leaving him.

“Jane,” he recommenced, as we slowly strayed down in the direction of the horse-chestnut, “Thornfield is a pleasant place in summer, is it not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you must have become in some degree attached to it?”

“I am attached to it, indeed.”

“Pity!” he said, and paused.

“Must I move on, sir?” I asked.

“I believe you must, Jane.”

This was a blow, but I did not let it prostrate me.

“Then you are going to be married, sir?”

“In about a month I hope to be a bridegroom.  We have been good friends, Jane, have we not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Here is the chestnut-tree; come, we will sit here in peace to-night.”  He seated me and himself.

“Jane, do you hear the nightingale singing in the wood?  Listen!”

In listening, I sobbed convulsively, for I could repress what I endured no longer, and when I did speak, it was only to express an impetuous wish that I had never been born, or never come to Thornfield.

“Because you are sorry to leave it?”

The vehemence of emotion was claiming mastery, and struggling for full sway—­to overcome, to live, rise, and reign at last; yes—­and to speak.