He was a man somewhat above middle age, with thin lemon-colored
hair, a curling mustache, a tufted chin of the same hue, and a
high craggy face, all running to a great hook of the nose, like
the beak of an eagle. His skin was tanned a brown-red by much
exposure to the wind and sun. In height he was tall, and his
figure was thin and loose-jointed, but stringy and hard-bitten.
One eye was entirely covered by its lid, which lay flat over an
empty socket, but the other danced and sparkled with a most
roguish light, darting here and there with a twinkle of humor and
criticism and intelligence, the whole fire of his soul bursting
through that one narrow cranny.
His dress was as noteworthy as his person. A rich purple doublet
and cloak was marked on the lapels with a strange scarlet device
shaped like a wedge. Costly lace hung round his shoulders, and
amid its soft folds there smoldered the dull red of a heavy golden
chain. A knight's belt at his waist and a knight's golden spurs
twinkling from his doeskin riding-boots proclaimed his rank, and
on the wrist of his left gauntlet there sat a demure little hooded
falcon of a breed which in itself was a mark of the dignity of the
owner. Of weapons he had none, but a mandolin was slung by a
black silken band over his back, and the high brown end projected
above his shoulder. Such was the man, quaint, critical,
masterful, with a touch of what is formidable behind it, who now
surveyed the opposing groups of armed men and angry monks with an
eye which commanded their attention.
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