Not liking to sit in the cold and darkness, I thought I would lie down on my bed, dressed as I was.

I left the window, and moved with little noise across the carpet; as I stooped to take off my shoes, a cautious hand tapped low at the door.
"Am I wanted ?" I asked.
"Are you up ?" asked the voice I expected to hear, viz., my master's.
"Yes, sir." "And dressed ?" "Yes." "Come out, then, quietly." 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." "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.