“I am exceedingly sorry,” he said. She had tried him as a Crusader, in which guise he seemed plausible but heavy—“There IS something heavy about him; I wonder if it’s his mustache?”—and as a Hussar, which made him preposterous, and as a Black Brunswicker, which was better, and as an Arab sheik. That ring manifestly occupied her thoughts a great deal. Under his arm he carried a thick, knotted crab-stick. This she would not endure. He wriggled underneath her heaving body, pinned like an insect. "He must be somewhere hereabouts," cried one of the horsemen, dismounting. The Jacobite daws want a scarecrow.
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