shrilly sound that ran from end to end of
Thornfield Hall.

The cry died and was not renewed. Indeed, whatever being uttered that
fearful shriek could not soon repeat it; not the widest-winged condor on
the Andes could, twice in succession, send out such a yell from the
cloud shrouding his eyrie.

It came out of the third storey. And overhead--yes, in the room just
above my chamber, I heard a deadly struggle, and a half-smothered voice
shout, "Help! help!"

A chamber door opened; someone rushed along the gallery. Another step
stamped on the floor above, and something fell. Then there was silence.

The sleepers were all aroused and gathered in the gallery, which but for
the moonlight would have been in complete darkness. The door at the end
of the gallery opened, and Mr. Rochester advanced with a candle. He had
just descended from the upper storey.

"All's right!" he cried. "A servant has had a nightmare, that is all,
and has taken a fit with fright. Now I must see you all back to your
rooms." And so by dint of coaxing and commanding he contrived to get
them back to their dormitories.

I retreated unnoticed and dressed myself carefully to be ready for
emergencies. About an hour passed, and then a cautious hand tapped low
at my door.

"Are you up and dressed?"

"Yes."

"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
be removed by the morning."

"Jane," he continued, "you'll sponge the blood w