A turban of red and gold silk was upon his venerable head.
And beside his excellency upon a cushion were laid his arms, weapons of barbarous make, thought the orphan.
A scimitar, curved à la Saladin, two long-barrelled pistols, with jewelled butts, "as though they were earrings or bracelets," the orphan said to himself, a long dagger with an ivory hilt and sheath, and a piece of cord.
"That's to tie them together with," mentally decided the orphan. "One might as well travel with the Woolwich Arsenal or the armoury from the Tower. Barbarous old beast."
"Now," said Captain Deering, "tuck in your tuppenny, Mr. Figgins; bow as low as you can."
The orphan put his back into an angle of forty-five with his legs.
"Lower."
"Ugh!"
"A little bit more."
"Lower," said Captain Deering, in an agonised whisper. "We shall all be bowstrung if his excellency thinks us wanting in respect."