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?"

     An inaudible reply escaped Mason's white lips.

     "The devil is in it if you cannot answer distinctly. I again demand, what have you to say?"

     "Sir--sir," interrupted the clergyman, "do not forget you are in a sacred place." Then addressing Mason, he inquired gently, "Are you aware, sir, whether or not this gentleman's wife is still living?"

     "Courage," urged the lawyer,--"speak out."

     "She is now living at Thornfield Hall," said Mason, in more articulate tones: "I saw her there last April. I am her brother."