I might have said, “Where is it?” for it did not seem in the room⁠—nor in the house⁠—nor in the garden; it did not come out of the air⁠—nor from under the earth⁠—nor from overhead. I had heard it⁠—where, or whence, forever impossible to know! And it was the voice of a human being⁠—a known, loved, well-remembered voice⁠—that of Edward Fairfax Rochester; and it spoke in pain and woe, wildly, eerily, urgently.

“I am coming!” I cried. “Wait for me! Oh, I will come!” I flew to the door and looked into the passage: it was dark. I ran out into the garden: it was void.

“Where are you?” I exclaimed.

The hills beyond Marsh Glen sent the answer faintly back⁠—“Where are you?” I listened. The wind sighed low in the firs: all was moorland loneliness and midnight hush.

“Down superstition!” I commented, as that spectre rose up black by the black yew at the gate. “This is not thy deception, nor thy witchcraft: it is the work of nature. She was roused, and did⁠—no miracle⁠—but her best.”