Mr.Rochester held the candle over him; I recognised in his pale and seemingly lifeless face--the stranger, Mason: I saw too that his linen on one side, and one arm, was almost soaked in blood.
"Hold the candle," said Mr.Rochester, and I took it: he fetched a basin of water from the washstand: "Hold that," said he.

I obeyed.

He took the sponge, dipped it in, and moistened the corpse-like face; he asked for my smelling-bottle, and applied it to the nostrils.

Mr.Mason shortly unclosed his eyes; he groaned.

Mr.Rochester opened the shirt of the wounded man, whose arm and shoulder were bandaged: he sponged away blood, trickling fast down.
"Is there immediate danger ?" murmured Mr.Mason.
"Pooh! No--a mere scratch.