Beneath a close-fitting goatskin cap his short, wavy hair lay thick and black.

A pack was strapped about him from shoulder to waist.

He carried the long staff of a mountaineer.
Were there in the wide world of varying forms and faces a form and a face so much unlike his own as were those of the man who walked, nay, jerked along, in short, fitful paces, by his side?
Little and slight, with long thin gray hair and dishevelled beard, with the startled eyes of a frighted fawn, and with its short, fearful glances, with a sharp face, worn into deep ridges that changed their shape with every step and every word, with nervous, twitching fingers, with a shrill voice and quick speech,--it was Simeon Stagg, the outcast, the castaway.
These two were to part company soon.

Not more devoted to its master was the dog that ran about them than was Sim to Ralph.

He was now to lose the only friend who had the will and the strength to shield him against the cruel world that was all the world to him.
They were walking along the pack-horse road on the breast of the fell, and they walked long in silence.