Meanwhile, however, he had disappeared—­down a thick green alley to the left, I supposed.  So I went forward by a clearer path, and when I had advanced a few paces, met face to face a lady whose dark eyes seemed strangely familiar to me.

She was evidently a little disquieted at meeting a stranger so unceremoniously, but stood her ground like a small, black, fearless note of interrogation.

I explained at once, therefore, as best I could, how I came to be there:  described my journey, my bewilderment, and how that I knew not into what country nor company fate had beguiled me, except that the one was beautiful, and the other in some delightful way familiar, and I begged her to tell me where I really was, and how far from home, and of whom I was now beseeching forgiveness.

Her thoughts followed my every word, passing upon her face like shadows on the sea.  I have never seen a listener so completely still and so completely engrossed in listening.  And when I had finished, she looked aside with a transient, half-sly smile, and glanced at me again covertly, so that I could not see herself for seeing her eyes; and she laughed lightly.

“It is indeed a strange journey,” she replied.  “But I fear I cannot in the least direct you.  I have never ventured my own self beyond the woods, lest—­I should penetrate too far.  But you are tired and hungry.  Will you please walk on a few steps till you come to a stone seat?  My name is Rochester—­Jane Rochester”—­she glanced up between the hollies with a sigh that was all but laughter—­“Jane Eyre, you know.”

I went on as she had bidden, and seated myself before an old, white, many-windowed house, squatting, like an owl at noon, beneath its green covert.  In a few minutes the great dog with dripping jowl passed almost like reality, and after him his mistress, and on her arm her master, Mr. Rochester.

There seemed a night of darkness in that scarred face, and stars unearthly bright.  He peered dimly at me, leaning heavily on Jane’s arm, his left hand plunged into the bosom of his coat.  And when he was come near, he lifted his hat to me with a kind of Spanish gravity.

“Is this the gentleman, Jane?” he enquired.

“Yes, sir.”

“He’s young!” he muttered.

“For otherwise he would not be here,” she replied.

“Was the gate bolted, then?” he asked.

“Mr. Rochester desires to know if you had the audacity, sir, to scale his garden wall,” Jane said, turning sharply on me.  “Shall I count the strawberries, sir?” she added over her shoulder.”

“Jane, Jane!” he exclaimed testily.  “I have no wish to be uncivil, sir.  We are not of the world—­a mere dark satellite.  I am dim; and suspicious of strangers, as this one treacherous eye should manifest.  I’ll but ask your name, sir,—­there are yet a few names left, once pleasing to my ear.”

“My name is Brocken, sir—­Henry Brocken,” I answered.