But what moved me most was the aspect of the two men who marched a dozen paces in the front of all.
The elder was a giant, huge of limb, towering above his clan like Saul, in the Bible, among his Israelites.

His white hair hung wildly on his shoulders, and tossed defiantly with every step he took.

He may have been seventy years of age, yet his face was knit as hard as a warrior's of thirty, and he stepped out as lissom and quick as his youngest gallowglass.

Yet all this was as nothing to the noble sadness of his face and the blaze of his deep, blue eyes, which, had I not known it already, would have betrayed him to me anywhere as Ludar's father.

The younger warrior at his side, a man of thirty-five, joyous of mien, his yellow hair glistening in the sunlight, and his massive form (only less massive than his father's), moving with a careless ease, it was not hard to guess was Alexander, the darling of the clan and the pride of his father's life.
Seeing us in the path, they suddenly halted, while the musketeers behind levelled their pieces.
But Ludar stepped solemnly forward.
"Father, I am Ludar," said he.
The old man uttered a quick exclamation and stepped back a pace to look at this stalwart man, whom he had seen last a young boy ten years ago.
Then, with a face as solemn as that of his son's, he laid his great hand on the lad's shoulder and said: "Thou art come in good time, Ludar, my son." That was all the greeting that passed betwixt these two; for immediately the march began again, the old man stalking first alone, and the two brothers (who had kissed at meeting), following, arm in arm.