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 an