“The ceremony is quite broken off,” subjoined the voice behind us.  “I am in a condition to prove my allegation; an insuperable impediment to this marriage exists.”

Mr. Rochester heard, but heeded not; he stood stubborn and rigid; making no movement but to possess himself of my hand.  What a hot and strong grasp he had!—­and how like quarried marble was his pale, firm, massive front at this moment!  How his eye shone, still, watchful, and yet wild beneath!

Mr. Wood seemed at a loss.  “What is the nature of the impediment?” he asked.  “Perhaps it may be got over—­explained away?”

“Hardly,” was the answer:  “I have called it insuperable, and I speak advisedly.”

The speaker came forward and leaned on the rails.  He continued, uttering each word distinctly, calmly, steadily, but not loudly.

“It simply consists in the existence of a previous marriage.  Mr. Rochester has a wife now living.”

My nerves vibrated to those low-spoken words as they had never vibrated to thunder; my blood felt their subtle violence as it had never felt frost or fire; but I was collected, and in no danger of swooning.  I looked at Mr. Rochester; I made him look at me.  His whole face was colorless rock; his eye was both spark and flint.  He disavowed nothing; he seemed as if he would defy all things.  Without speaking, without smiling, without seeming to recognize in me a human being, he only twined my waist with his arm and riveted me to his side.

“Who are you?” he asked of the intruder.

“My name is Briggs, a solicitor of ——­ Street, London.”

“And you would thrust on me a wife?”

“I would remind you of your lady’s existence, sir, which the law recognizes if you do not.”

“Favor me with an account of her—­with her name, her parentage, her place of abode.”

“Certainly.”  Mr. Briggs calmly took a paper from his pocket, and read out in a sort of official, nasal voice:—­

“I affirm and can prove that on the 20th of October, A.D.—­” (a date of fifteen years back), “Edward Fairfax Rochester, of Thornfield Hall, in the county of ——­, and of Ferndean Manor, in ——­ shire, England, was married to my sister, Bertha Antoinetta Mason, daughter of Jonas Mason, merchant, and of Antoinetta his wife, a Creole, at ——­ church, Spanish Town, Jamaica.  The record of the marriage will be found in the register of that church—­a copy of it is now in my possession.  Signed, Richard Mason.”

“That, if a genuine document, may prove I have been married, but it does not prove that the woman mentioned therein as my wife is still living.”

“She was living three months ago,” returned the lawyer.

“How do you know?”

“I have a witness to the fact whose testimony even you, sir, will scarcely controvert.”

“Produce him—­or go to hell!”

“I will produce him first—­he is on the spot:  Mr. Mason, have the goodness to step forward.”