ut further might try me beyond my strength。 Rise； Miss Eyre： leave me； the play is played out’。”
Where was I？ Did I wake or sleep？ Had I been dreaming？ Did I dream still？ The old woman’s voice had changed： her accent； her gesture； and all were familiar to me as my own face in a glass—as the speech of my own tongue。 I got up； but did not go。 I looked； I stirred the fire； and I looked again： but she drew her bon and her bandage closer about her face； and again beckoned me to depart。 The flame illuminated her hand stretched out： roused now； and on the alert for discoveries； I at once noticed that hand。 It was no more the withered limb of eld than my own； it was a rounded supple member； with smooth fingers； symmetrically turned； a broad ring flashed on the little finger； and stooping forward； I looked at it； and saw a gem I had seen a hundred times before。 Again I looked at the face； which was no longer turned from me—on the contrary； the bon was doffed； the bandage displaced； the head advanced。
“Well； Jane； do you know me？” asked the familiar voice。
“Only take off the red cloak； sir； and then—”
“But the string is in a knot—help me。”
“Break it； sir。”
“There； then—‘Off； ye lendings！’” And Mr。 Rochester stepped out of his disguise。
“Now； sir； what a strange idea！”
“But well carried out； eh？ Don’t you think so？”
“With the ladies you must have managed well。”
“But not with you？”
“You did not act the character of a gipsy with me。”
“What character did I act？ My own？”
“No； some unaccountable one。 In short； I believe you have been trying to draw me out—or in； you have been talking nonsense to make me talk nonsense。 It is scarcely fair； sir。”
“Do you forgive me； Jane？”
“I cannot t