Mortimer FitzHugh's face was white, a deadly white, and he was smiling.

His right hand rested carelessly in his hunting-coat pocket.

There was a sneering challenge on his lips; in his eyes was a look that Aldous knew meant death if Quade moved.

And Quade was like a great red beast ready to spring.

His eyes seemed bulging out on his cheeks; his great hands were knotted; his shoulders were hunched forward, and his mottled face was ablaze with passion.