As I crossed his shadow, thrown long over the garden by the moon, not yet risen high, he said quietly, without turning —

“Jane, come and look at this fellow.”

I had made no noise: he had not eyes behind — could his shadow feel?

I started at first, and then I approached him.

“Look at his wings,” said he, “he reminds me rather of a West Indian insect; one does not often see so large and gay a night-rover in England; there! he is flown.”

The moth roamed away. I was sheepishly retreating also; but Mr. Rochester followed me, and when we reached the wicket, he said —

“Turn back: on so lovely a night it is a shame to sit in the house; and surely no one can wish to go to bed while sunset is thus at meeting with moonrise.”