The inside of the wood was full of shattered sunlight and shaken shadows.
They made a sort of shuddering veil, almost recalling the dizziness of a cinematograph.

Even the solid figures walking with him Syme could hardly see for the patterns of sun and shade that danced upon them.

Now a man's head was lit as with a light of Rembrandt, leaving all else obliterated; now again he had strong and staring white hands with the face of a negro.

The ex-Marquis had pulled the old straw hat over his eyes, and the black shade of the brim cut his face so squarely in two that it seemed to be wearing one of the black half-masks of their pursuers.

The fancy tinted Syme's overwhelming sense of wonder.