They were men of one stamp; no distinction of uniform could obscure their relationship--lean-faced men, hard as iron, rugged in feature, thin-lipped, with firm chins and straight, level mouths, narrow foreheads, and the steel-blue inexpressive eyes; men of courage and resolution, no doubt, but without subtleties, or nerves, or that burdensome gift of imagination; sturdy men, a little wanting in delicacy, hardly conspicuous for intellect; to put it frankly, men rather stupid--all of them, in a word, first-class fighting men, but not one of them a first-class soldier.
But Harry Feversham plainly saw none of their defects.

To him they were one and all portentous and terrible.

He stood before them in the attitude of a criminal before his judges, reading his condemnation in their cold unchanging eyes.

Lieutenant Sutch understood more clearly why the flame of the candle flickered.

There was no draught in the hall, but the boy's hand shook.