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My nerves vibrated to those low-spoken words as they had never vibrated to thunder-my blood felt their subtle violence as it had never felt frost or fire; but I was collected, and in no danger of swooning.

I looked at Mr. Rochester: I made him look at me.

His whole face was colourless rock: his eye was both spark and flint.

He disavowed nothing: he seemed as if he would defy all things.

Without speaking, without smiling, without seeming to recognise in me a human being, he only twined my waist with his arm and riveted me to his side.

"Who are you?" he asked of the intruder.

"My name is Briggs, a solicitor of - Street, London."

"And you would thrust on me a wife?"

"I would remind you of your lady's existence, sir, which the law recognises, if you do not."

"Favour me with an account of her-with her name, her parentage, her place of abode."

"Certainly." Mr. Briggs calmly took a paper from his pocket, and read out in a sort of official, nasal voice:-

"'I affirm and can prove that on the 20th of October A.D.

- (a date of fifteen years back), Edward Fairfax Rochester, of Thornfield Hall, in the county of -, and of Ferndean Manor, in -shire, England, was married to my sister, Bertha Antoinetta Mason, daughter of Jonas Mason, merchant, and of Antoinetta his wife

The record of the marriage will be found in the register of that church-a copy of it is now in my possession.

Signed, Richard Mason.'"

"That-if a genuine document-may prove I have been married, but it does not prove that the woman mentioned therein as my wife is still living."

"She was living three months ago," returned the lawyer.

"How do you know?"

"I have a witness to the fact, whose testimony even you, sir, will scarcely controvert."

"Produce him-or go to hell."

"I will produce him first-he is on the spot. Mr. Mason, have the goodness to step forward."

Mr. Rochester, on hearing the name, set his teeth; he experienced, too, a sort of strong convulsive quiver; near to him as I was, I felt the spasmodic movement of fury or despair run through his frame.

The second stranger, who had hitherto lingered in the background, now drew near; a pale face looked over the solicitor's shoulder-yes, it was Mason himself.

Mr. Rochester turned and glared at him.

His eye, as I have often said, was a black eye: it had now a tawny, nay, a bloody light in its gloom; and his face flushed-olive cheek and hueless forehead received a glow as from spreading, ascending heart-fire: and he stirred, lifted his strong arm-he could have struck Mason, dashed him on the church-floor, shocked by ruthless blow the breath from his body-but Mason shrank away, and cried faintly, "Good God!" Contempt fell cool on Mr. Rochester-his passion died as if a blight had shrivelled it up: he only asked-"What have you to say?"

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