Many years of toil and privation had not robbed Thomas Outram's face of its singular beauty, or found power to mar its refinement.

But death was written on it.
Leonard sighed, then, struck by a sudden thought, sought for and found a scrap of looking-glass.

Holding it close to the light of the lantern, he examined the reflection of his own features.

The glass mirrored a handsome bearded man, dark, keen-eyed like one who is always on the watch for danger, curly-haired and broad-shouldered; not very tall, but having massive limbs and a form which showed strength in every movement.
Though he was still young, there was little of youth left about the man; clearly toil and struggle had done an evil work with him, ageing his mind and hardening it as they had hardened the strength and vigour of his body.

The face was a good one, but most men would have preferred to see friendship shining in those piercing black eyes rather than the light of enmity.