She approached the basin, and bent over it as if to fill her

pitcher; she again lifted it to her head. The personage on the

well-brink now seemed to accost her; to make some request:- "She

hasted, let down her pitcher on her hand, and gave him to drink."

From the bosom of his robe he then produced a casket, opened it and

showed magnificent bracelets and earrings; she acted astonishment

and admiration; kneeling, he laid the treasure at her feet;

incredulity and delight were expressed by her looks and gestures;

the stranger fastened the bracelets on her arms and the rings in her

ears. It was Eliezer and Rebecca: the camels only were wanting.

The divining party again laid their heads together: apparently they

could not agree about the word or syllable the scene illustrated.

Colonel Dent, their spokesman, demanded "the tableau of the whole;"

whereupon the curtain again descended.

On its third rising only a portion of the drawing-room was

disclosed; the rest being concealed by a screen, hung with some sort

of dark and coarse drapery. The marble basin was removed; in its

place, stood a deal table and a kitchen chair: these objects were

visible by a very dim light proceeding from a horn lantern, the wax

candles being all extinguished.

Amidst this sordid scene, sat a man with his clenched hands resting

on his knees, and his eyes bent on the ground. I knew Mr.

Rochester; though the begrimed face, the disordered dress (his coat

hanging loose from one arm, as if it had been almost torn from his

back in a scuffle), the desperate and scowling countenance, the

rough, bristling hair might well have disguised him. As he moved, a

chain clanked; to his wrists were attached fetters.

"Bridewell!" exclaimed Colonel Dent, and the charade was solved.

A sufficient interval having elapsed for the performers to resume

their ordinary costume, they re-entered the dining-room. Mr.

Rochester led in Miss Ingram; she was complimenting him on his

acting.

"Do you know," said she, "that, of the three characters, I liked you

in the last best? Oh, had you but lived a few years earlier, what a

gallant gentleman-highwayman you would have made!"

"Is all the soot washed from my face?" he asked, turning it towards

her.

"Alas! yes: the more's the pity! Nothing could be more becoming to

your complexion than that ruffian's rouge."

"You would like a hero of the road then?"

"An English hero of the road would be the next best thing to an

Italian bandit; and that could only be surpassed by a Levantine

pirate."




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