The hiss of the quenched element，the breakage of a pitcher which I flung from my hand when I had emptied it，and，above all，the splash of the shower-bath I had liberally bestowed，roused Mr. Rochester at last. Though it was now dark，I knew he was awake; because I heard him fulminating strange anathemas at finding himself lying in a pool of water.

"Is there a flood?" he cried.

No，sir," I answered; "but there has been a fire: get up，do; you are quenched now; I will fetch you a candle."

"In the name of all the elves in Christendom，is that Jane Eyre?" he demanded. "What have you done with me，witch，sorceress? Who is in the room besides you? Have you plotted to drown me?"

"I will fetch you a candle，sir; and，in Heaven"s name，get up.

Somebody has plotted something: you cannot too soon find out who and what it is."

"There! I am up now; but at your peril you fetch a candle yet: wait two minutes till I get into some dry garments，if any dry there be- yes，here is my dressing-gown. Now run!"

I did run; I brought the candle which still remained in the gallery. He took it from my hand，held it up，and surveyed the bed，all blackened and scorched，the sheets drenched，the carpet round swimming in water.

"What is it? and who did it?" he asked.