The two were alone in the tent.
This John--Sansterre, Landlos, Lackland, so they variously called him--was a timid copy of his brother, a wry-necked reedy Richard with a sniff.

Not so tall, yet more spare, with blue eyes more pallid than his brother's, and protruding where Richard's were inset, the difference lay more in degree than kind.

Richard was of heroic build, but a well-knit, well-shaped hero; in John the arms were too long, the head too small, the brow too narrow.

Richard's eyes were perhaps too wide apart; no doubt John's were too near together.

Richard twitched his fingers when he was moved, John bit his cheek.