The Exiles | Page 7

eyelids so broad, and bordered by so dark a circle sharply
defined on his cheek, that they seemed rather prominent. These singular
eyes had in them something indescribably domineering and piercing,
which took possession of the soul by a grave and thoughtful look, a
look as bright and lucid as that of a serpent or a bird, but which held
one fascinated and crushed by the swift communication of some
tremendous sorrow, or of some super-human power.
Every feature was in harmony with this eye of lead and of fire, at once
rigid and flashing, stern and calm. While in this eagle eye earthly
emotions seemed in some sort extinct, the lean, parched face also bore
traces of unhappy passions and great deeds done. The nose, which was
narrow and aquiline, was so long that it seemed to hang on by the
nostrils. The bones of the face were strongly marked by the long,
straight wrinkles that furrowed the hollow cheeks. Every line in the
countenance looked dark. It would suggest the bed of a torrent where
the violence of former floods was recorded in the depth of the
water-courses, which testified to some terrible, unceasing turmoil. Like
the ripples left by the oars of a boat on the waters, deep lines, starting
from each side of his nose, marked his face strongly, and gave an
expression of bitter sadness to his mouth, which was firm and
straight-lipped. Above the storm thus stamped on his countenance, his
calm brow rose with what may be called boldness, and crowned it as
with a marble dome.
The stranger preserved that intrepid and dignified manner that is
frequently habitual with men inured to disaster, and fitted by nature to
stand unmoved before a furious mob and to face the greatest dangers.
He seemed to move in a sphere apart, where he poised above humanity.
His gestures, no less than his look, were full of irresistible power; his
lean hands were those of a soldier; and if your own eyes were forced to

fall before his piercing gaze, you were no less sure to tremble when by
word or action he spoke to your soul. He moved in silent majesty that
made him seem a king without his guard, a god without his rays.
His dress emphasized the ideas suggested by the peculiarities of his
mien and face. Soul, body, and garb were in harmony, and calculated to
impress the coldest imagination. He wore a sort of sleeveless gown of
black cloth, fastened in front, and falling to the calf, leaving the neck
bare with no collar. His doublet and boots were likewise black. On his
head was a black velvet cap like a priest's, sitting in a close circle above
his forehead, and not showing a single hair. It was the strictest
mourning, the gloomiest habit a man could wear. But for a long sword
that hung by his side from a leather belt which could be seen where his
surcoat hung open, a priest would have hailed him as a brother. Though
of no more than middle height, he appeared tall; and, looking him in
the face he seemed a giant.
"The clock has struck, the boat is waiting; will you not come?"
At these words, spoken in bad French, but distinctly audible in the
silence, a little noise was heard in the other top room, and the young
man came down as lightly as a bird.
When Godefroid appeared, the lady's face turned crimson; she trembled,
started, and covered her face with her white hands.
Any woman might have shared her agitation at the sight of this youth
of about twenty, of a form and stature so slender that at a first glance he
might have been taken for a mere boy, or a young girl in disguise. His
black cap--like the /beret/ worn by the Basque people-- showed a brow
as white as snow, where grace and innocence shone with an expression
of divine sweetness--the light of a soul full of faith. A poet's fancy
would have seen there the star which, in some old tale, a mother
entreats the fairy godmother to set on the forehead of an infant
abandoned, like Moses, to the waves. Love lurked in the thousand fair
curls that fell over his shoulders. His throat, truly a swan's throat, was
white and exquisitely round. His blue eyes, bright and liquid, mirrored
the sky. His features and the mould of his brow were refined and
delicate enough to enchant a painter. The bloom of beauty, which in a
woman's face causes men such indescribable delight, the exquisite
purity of outline, the halo of light that bathes the features we love, were
here combined with a masculine complexion, and with strength as yet

but half developed, in the most