Explore "Micah Clarke" by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
We were not half a mile from the town before the roll of kettledrums and / the blare of bugles swelling up musically through the darkness announced / the arrival of the regiment of horse which our friends at the inn had / been expecting.
'It is as well, perhaps,' said Saxon, 'that we gave them the slip, / for that young springald might have smelled a rat and played us some / ill-turn. Have you chanced to see my silken kerchief?'