He looked at him again.
Vanamee's lean, spare face was of an olive pallor.

His long, black hair, such as one sees in the saints and evangelists of the pre-Raphaelite artists, hung over his ears.

Presley again remarked his pointed beard, black and fine, growing from the hollow cheeks.

He looked at his face, a face like that of a young seer, like a half-inspired shepherd of the Hebraic legends, a dweller in the wilderness, gifted with strange powers.

He was dressed as when Presley had first met him, herding his sheep, in brown canvas overalls, thrust into top boots; grey flannel shirt, open at the throat, showing the breast ruddy with tan; the waist encircled with a cartridge belt, empty of cartridges.
But now, as Presley took more careful note of him, he was surprised to observe a certain new look in Vanamee's deep-set eyes.