He was a man of splendid physical presence.
His garments, though soiled and bedraggled by rough riding, were costly and rich.

His spurs were bloody; and the dullness of the blood and the brightness of the steel were again presented in his fierce eyes.

The face was not pleasing; it was too squarely hewn, too emotional; it indexed the heart too readily, its passions, its loves and its hates.
There was cunning in the lips and caution in the brow; but the face was too mutable.
"The Comte d'Herouville!" exclaimed the vicomte.

"Saumaise, this looks bad.

He is not a man to run away like you and me." The new-comer spoke to the innkeeper, who raised his index finger and leveled it at Victor and the vicomte.