"Where are they?"
"In—in—the—cottage," murmured the woman, and fell back in a fainting condition with a would-be sneering laugh.
Lambert started to his feet with an oath, and leaving the wretched woman to the care of some gypsies, ran back to the glade. The cottage was a mass of streaming, crackling flames, and there was no water to extinguish these, as he realized with sudden fear. It was terrible to think that the old woman and Garvington were burning in that furnace, and desperately anxious to save at least one of the two, Lambert tried to enter the door. But the heat of the fire drove him back, and the flames seemed to roar at his discomfiture. He could do nothing but stand helplessly and gaze upon what was plainly Garvington's funeral pyre.
By this time the villagers were making for the wood, and the whole place rang with cries of excitement and dismay. The wintry scene was revealed only too clearly by the ruddy glare and by the same sinister light. Lambert suddenly beheld Chaldea at his elbow. Gripping his arm, she spoke hoarsely, "The tiny rye is dead. He drove the engine over a bank and it smashed him to a pulp."
"Oh! ah! And—and Miss Greeby?"
"She is dying."
Lambert clenched his hands and groaned, "Garvington and Mother Cockleshell?"
"She is dead and he is dead by now," said Chaldea, looking with a callous smile at the burning cottage, "both are dead—Lord Garvington."
"Lord Garvington?" Lambert groaned again. He had forgotten that he now possessed the title and what remained of the family estates.
"Avali!" cried Chaldea, clapping her hands and nodding toward the cottage with a meaning smile, "there's the bonfire to celebrate the luck."