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Updated: June 25, 2025
He had the absurd fancy that they were torches flaming before a bier. It was well that the two had moved quietly and kept in shadow. Footsteps fell on their ears, on the path which threaded the lawn just beyond the sunk-fence. It was the keeper of the West Lodge and he carried something on his back, but both that and his face were indistinct in the half-light.
Three brass cannons, set on the brow of the sunk-fence, were to proclaim our deathless sentiments in the ears of the retreating foe: the dogs were to wear ribbons, and later but this depended on our powers of evasiveness and dissimulation there might be a small bonfire, with a cracker or two, if the public funds could bear the unwonted strain.
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