The cheeks seemed to have fallen in.

The features were rigid as if cut out of metal.

The whites of his eyes between the reddened lids were very blood-shot and the eyes themselves seemed balls of blue fire.

There was not a shade of kindliness in them, only the gleam of a fixed purpose which no entreaties would alter.
She could imagine that he might have looked like that, when, as a boy he had beheld the mutilated bodies of his father, mother, sisters, stretched stark, after the blacks had done their hideous work.
And it was true that he did feel now somewhat as that boy had felt, for again to his tortured imagination that which he held dearest seemed to be lying foully murdered before his eyes.

She, his love, had been ravished from him, and he could only regard her as dead to him for evermore.
'Colin,' she gasped.