“Good morning, Mrs. Poole,” said Mr. Rochester.  “How are you? and how is your charge to-day?”

“We’re tolerable, sir, I thank you,” replied Grace, lifting the boiling mess carefully on to the hob:  “rather snappish, but not ’rageous.”

A fierce cry seemed to give the lie to her favorable report:  the clothed hyena rose up, and stood tall on its hind feet.

“Ah, sir, she sees you!” exclaimed Grace:  “you’d better not stay.”

“Only a few moments, Grace; you must allow me a few moments.”

“Take care then, sir! for God’s sake, take care!”

The maniac bellowed; she parted her shaggy locks from her visage, and gazed wildly at her visitors.  I recognized well that purple face—­those bloated features.  Mrs. Poole advanced.

“Keep out of the way,” said Mr. Rochester, thrusting her aside; “she has no knife now, I suppose? and I’m on my guard.”

“One never knows what she has, sir, she is so cunning; it is not in mortal discretion to fathom her craft.”

“We had better leave her,” whispered Mason.

“Go to the devil!” was his brother-in-law’s recommendation.

“’Ware!” cried Grace.  The three gentlemen retreated simultaneously.  Mr. Rochester flung me behind him; the lunatic sprang and grappled his throat viciously, and laid her teeth to his cheek; they struggled.  She was a big woman, in stature almost equaling her husband, and corpulent besides; she showed virile force in the contest—­more than once she almost throttled him, athletic as he was.  He could have settled her with a well-planted blow; but he would not strike her; he would only wrestle.  At last he mastered her arms; Grace Poole gave him a cord, and he pinioned them behind her; with more rope, which was at hand, he bound her to a chair.  The operation was performed amid the fiercest yells and the most convulsive plunges.  Mr. Rochester then turned to the spectators; he looked at them with a smile both acrid and desolate.

“That is my wife,” said he.  “Such is the sole conjugal embrace I am ever to know—­such are the endearments which are to solace my leisure hours!  And this is what I wished to have” (laying his hand on my shoulder):  “this young girl, who stands so grave and quiet at the mouth of hell, looking collectedly at the gambols of a demon.  I wanted her just as a change, after that fierce ragout.  Wood and Briggs, look at the difference.  Compare these clear eyes with the red balls yonder—­this face with that mask—­this form with that bulk; then judge me, priest of the Gospel and man of the law, and remember, with what judgment ye judge ye shall be judged!  Off with you now:  I must shut up my prize.”

We all withdrew.  Mr. Rochester stayed a moment behind us, to give some further order to Grace Poole.  The solicitor addressed me as he descended the stair.

“You, madam,” said he, “are cleared from all blame; your uncle will be glad to hear it—­if indeed he should be still living—­when Mr. Mason returns to Madeira.”