"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.

"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