He was a man whose age Philip could not guess.

It might have been forty.
Probably it was close to that.

He was bareheaded, and his long coarse hair, black as an Indian's, was shot with gray.

At first it would have been difficult to name the blood that ran strongest in his veins.

His hair, the thinness of his face and body, his eyes, and the tense position in which he had paused, were all Indian.