The　third　showed　the　pinnacle　of　an　iceberg　piercing　a　polar　winter　sky：　a　muster　of　northern　lights　reared　their　dim　lances；　close　serried；　along　the　horizon。　Throwing　these　into　distance；　rose；　in　the　foreground；　a　head；—a　colossal　head；　inclined　towards　the　iceberg；　and　resting　against　it。　Two　thin　hands；　joined　under　the　forehead；　and　supporting　it；　drew　up　before　the　lower　features　a　sable　veil；　a　brow　quite　bloodless；　white　as　bone；　and　an　eye　hollow　and　fixed；　blank　of　meaning　but　for　the　glassiness　of　despair；　alone　were　visible。　Above　the　temples；　amidst　wreathed　turban　folds　of　black　drapery；　vague　in　its　character　and　consistency　as　cloud；　gleamed　a　ring　of　white　flame；　gemmed　with　sparkles　of　a　more　lurid　tinge。　This　pale　crescent　was　“the　likeness　of　a　kingly　crown；”　what　it　diademed　was　“the　shape　which　shape　had　none。”

“Were　you　happy　when　you　painted　these　pictures？”　asked　Mr。　Rochester　presently。

“I　was　absorbed；　sir：　yes；　and　I　was　happy。　To　paint　them；　in　short；　was　to　enjoy　one　of　the　keenest　pleasures　I　have　ever　known。”

“That　is　not　saying　much。　Your　pleasures；　by　your　own　account；　have　been　few；　but　I　daresay　you　did　exist　in　a　kind　of　artist’s　dreamland　while　you　blent　and　arranged　these　strange　tints。　Did　you　sit　at　them　long　each　day？”

“I　had　nothing　else　to　do；　because　it　was　the　vacation；　and　I　sat　at　them　from　morning　till　noon；　and　from　noon　till　night：　the　length　of　the　midsummer　days　favoured　my　inclination　to　ap