"Yes, child, I see," answered Lady Audley, trying to shake the clinging hands from her garments. "What's the matter?"
"It's a fire—a fire, my lady!"
"Yes, I am afraid it is a fire. At Brentwood, most likely. Let me go, Phoebe; it's nothing to us."
"Yes, yes, my lady; it's nearer than Brentwood—much nearer; it's at Mount Stanning."
Lady Audley did not answer. She was trembling again, with the cold perhaps, for the wind had torn her heavy cloak from her shoulders, and had left her slender figure exposed to the blast.
"It's at Mount Stanning, my lady!" cried Phoebe Marks. "It's the Castle that's on fire—I know it is, I know it is! I thought of fire to-night, and I was fidgety and uneasy, for I knew this would happen some day. I wouldn't mind if it was only the wretched place, but there'll be life lost, there'll be life lost!" sobbed the girl, distractedly. "There's Luke, too tipsy to help himself, unless others help him; there's Mr. Audley asleep—"
Phoebe Marks stopped suddenly at the mention of Robert's name, and fell upon her knees, clasping her uplifted hands, and appealing wildly to Lady Audley.
"Oh, my God!" she cried. "Say it's not true, my lady, say it's not true! It's too horrible, it's too horrible, it's too horrible!"
"What's too horrible?"
"The thought that's in my mind; the terrible thought that's in my mind."