He stopped a man who was hurrying past, and asked him how far the Fire had got.
“How far? Where have you been, then?” was the reply. “Paul’s Church is in ashes; so’s Fleet Street and——”
“I mean on this side.”
“Why, the Custom House by the river has gone, so’s a part of Tower Street, and Mincing Lane, and the parsonage of Barking Church——”
“Juste ciel!” cried the Frenchman. “Our house is near of that. Haste! haste!”
His mental distress, following on the fatigues of the night, rendered the old gentleman’s steps unsteady, and he clung to Martin’s arm for support. They hurried on, their alarm growing from moment to moment. Every now and then they heard a terrific explosion, and saw immense columns of smoke, dust, and fragments of wood spring into the air.
“What’s that?” asked Martin of a passer-by.
“Blowing up houses in Seething Lane,” the man replied.
“Mon Dieu! How close!” muttered the Frenchman. “For me it is ruin, ruin!”
At last they turned the corner from which their house could be seen. One glance was enough. Flames were bursting from the roof. It appeared that the house had caught fire at the top from floating sparks. People were running hither and thither in the street, carrying away their goods from the neighbouring houses. In the roadway before the house was a little group of three—Susan Gollop, Lucy, and the Indian boy, standing guard over the household gear piled in the roadway.