They said so to Jean Jacques when he stood with his eyes fixed on the burning fabric, which nothing could save; but he showed no desire to speak.

He only nodded and kept on staring at the fire with that curious underglow in his eyes.
Some chemistry of the soul had taken place in him in the hour when he drove to the Manor Cartier from Vilray, and it produced a strange fire, which merged into the reflection of the sky above the burning mill.
Later, came things which were strange and eventful in his life, but that under-glow was for ever afterwards in his eyes.

It was in singular contrast to the snapping fire which had been theirs all the days of his life till now--the snapping fire of action, will and design.

It still was there when they said to him suddenly that the wind had changed, and that the flame and sparks were now blowing toward the saw-mill.

Even when he gave orders, and set to work to defend the saw-mill, arranging a line of men with buckets on its roof, and so saving it, this look remained.