"Jane，are you ready?"

I rose. There were no groomsmen，no bridesmaids，no relatives to wait for or marshal: none but Mr. Rochester and I. Mrs. Fairfax stood in the hall as we passed. I would fain have spoken to her，but my hand was held by a grasp of iron: I was hurried along by a stride I could hardly follow; and to look at Mr. Rochester"s face was to feel that not a second of delay would be tolerated for any purpose. I wonder what other bridegroom ever looked as he did- so bent up to a purpose，so grimly resolute: or who，under such steadfast brows，ever revealed such flaming and flashing eyes.

I know not whether the day was fair or foul; in descending the drive，I gazed neither on sky nor earth: my heart was with my eyes; and both seemed migrated into Mr. Rochester"s frame. I wanted to see the invisible thing on which，as we went along，he appeared to fasten a glance fierce and fell. I wanted to feel the thoughts whose force he seemed breasting and resisting.

At the churchyard wicket he stopped: he discovered I was quite out of breath. "Am I cruel in my love?" he said. "Delay an instant: lean on me，Jane."

And now I can recall the picture of the grey old house of God rising calm before me，of a rook wheeling round the steeple，of a ruddy morning sky beyond. I remember something，too，of the green grave-mounds; and I have not forgotten，either，two figures of strangers straying amongst the low hillocks and reading the mementoes graven on the few mossy head-stones. I noticed them，because，as they saw us，they passed round to the back of the church; and I doubted not they were going to enter by the side-aisle door and witness the ceremony. By Mr. Rochester they were not observed; he was earnestly looking at my face，from which the blood had，I daresay，momentarily fled: for I felt my forehead dewy，and my cheeks and lips cold. When I rallied，which I soon did，he walked gently with me up the path to the porch.

We entered the quiet and humble temple; the priest waited in his white surplice at the lowly altar，the clerk beside him. All was still: two shadows only moved in a remote corner. My conjecture had been correct: the strangers had slipped in before us，and they now stood by the vault of the Rochesters，their backs towards us，viewing through the rails the old times-stained marble tomb，where a kneeling angel guarded the remains of Damer de Rochester，slain at Marston Moor in the time of the civil wars，and of Elizabeth，his wife.