He could escape for a time from his coil of similes and paint for himself the irids of her large, long, grey eyes darkly rimmed; purest water-grey, lucid within the ring, beneath an arch of lashes.
He had them fast; but then he fell to contemplating their exceeding rareness; And the mystery of the divinely grey swung a kindled fancy to the flight with some queen-witch of woods, of whom a youth may dream under the spell of twilights, East or West, among forest branches.
She had these marvellous eyes and the glamour for men.

She had not yet met a man with the poetical twist in the brain to prize her elementally.
All admitted the glamour; none of her courtiers were able to name it, even the poetical head giving it a name did not think of the witch in her looks as a witch in her deeds, a modern daughter of the mediaeval.
To her giant squire the eyes of the lady were queer: they were unlit glass lamps to her French suppliant; and to the others, they were attractively uncommon; the charm for them being in her fine outlines, her stature, carriage of her person, and unalterable composure; particularly her latent daring.

She had the effect on the general mind of a lofty crag-castle with a history.

There was a whiff of gunpowder exciting the atmosphere in the anecdotal part of the history known.
Woodseer sat for a certain time over his note-book.

He closed it with a thrilling conceit of the right thing written down; such as entomologists feel when they have pinned the rare insect.