I crossed the room and looked out into the night. The brightening moon
hung golden in the dark clearness of the sky. Mr. Rochester stood
motionless, Napoleon-wise, beneath the black, unstirring foliage. And
before I could turn, Jane had begun to sing:--

You take my heart with tears;
I battle uselessly;
Reft of all hopes and doubts and fears,
Lie quietly.

You veil my heart with cloud;
Since faith is dim and blind,
I can but grope perplex'd and bow'd,
Seek till I find.

Yet bonds are life to me;
How else could I perceive
The love in each wild artery
That bids me live?

Jane's was not a rich voice, nor very sweet, and yet I fancied no
other voice than this could plead and argue quite so clearly and with
such nimble insistency--neither of bird, nor child, nor brook;
because, I suppose, it was the voice of Jane Eyre, and all that was
Jane's seemed Jane's only.

The music ceased, the accompaniment died away; but Mr. Rochester stood
immobile yet--a little darker night in that much deeper. When I
turned, Jane was gone from the room. I sat down, my face towards the
still candles, as one who is awake, yet dreams on. The faint scent of