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 when it returns, and put your salts to his nose; and you'll not speak to him on any pretext--and, Richard, it will be at the peril of your life if you speak to her."