"I want you," he said: "e this way: take your time，and make no noise."

My slippers were thin: I could walk the matted floor as softly as a cat. He glided up the gallery and up the stairs，and stopped in the dark，low corridor of the fateful third storey: I had followed and stood at his side.

"Have you a sponge in your room?" he asked in a whisper.

"Yes，sir."

"Have you any salts- volatile salts?"

"Yes."

"Go back and fetch both."

I returned，sought the sponge on the washstand，the salts in my drawer，and once more retraced my steps. He still waited; he held a key in his hand: approaching one of the small，black doors，he put it in the lock; he paused，and addressed me again.

"You don"t turn sick at the sight of blood?"

"I think I shall not: I have never been tried yet."

I felt a thrill while I answered him; but no coldness，and no faintness.

"Just give me your hand," he said: "it will not do to risk a fainting fit."

I put my fingers into his. "Warm and steady," was his remark: he turned the key and opened the door.

I saw a room I remembered to have seen before，the day Mrs. Fairfax showed me over the house: it was hung with tapestry; but the tapestry was now looped up in one part，and there was a door apparent，which had then been concealed. This door was open; a light shone out of the room within: I heard thence a snarling，snatching sound，almost like a dog quarrelling. Mr. Rochester，putting down his candle，said to me，"Wait a minute," and he went forward to the inner apartment.

A shout of laughter greeted his entrance; noisy at first，and terminating in Grace poole"s own goblin ha! ha! She then was there. He made some sort of arrangement without speaking，though I heard a low voice address him: he came out and closed the door behind him.