The floor of the cloister itself was covered with thousands of identical, horn-shaped, nine-sided tiles that had been joined together with machine-tool precision into a nonrepeating double-spiral pattern that was giving me motion sickness just looking at it. I turned my back on this and looked at a loaf of bread that was resting on the table. This was so fresh that steam was gushing out of the end — Arsibalt, an infamous heel-filcher, had already got to it. The loaf had been made by braiding several ropes of dough together in a nontrivial pattern that, I feared, had deep knot-theoretical significance and was named after some Elkhazgian Saunt.

Demme, sir!” exclaimed Titmouse, starting aside with an offended air— “d’ye think I don’t know how to manage a sword? By all that’s tremendous"— and plucking the taper weapon out of its scabbard, he waved it over his head; and throwing himself into the first position — he had latterly paid a good deal of attention to fencing — and with rather an excited air, he went through several of the preliminary movements. ‘Twas a subject for a painter, and exhibited a very striking spectacle — as an instance of power silently concentrated, and ready to be put forth upon an adequate occasion. The tailor and the valet, who stood separate from each other and at a safe and respectful distance from Mr. Titmouse, gazed with silent admiration at him.