I obeyed. Mr. Rochester stood in the gallery holding a light.
"I want you," he said, "come 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.
有没有盐 — 易挥发的盐？有的。
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.