It made him like some figure of mythology, implacable, fateful.

His great height, his bushy beard and stormy forehead, the eyes over which shaggy eyebrows hung like the shrubs on a cliff-edge, his face lined and set like a thing in bronze--all were signs of a power which, in passion, would be like that of OEdipus: in the moment of justice or doom would, with unblinking eyes, slay and cast aside as debris is tossed upon the dust-heap.
As he spoke now his voice was toneless.

His mind was flint, and his tongue was but the flash of the flint.

He looked at his daughter for a moment with no light of fatherhood in his face, then turned from her to Jethro Fawe with slow decision and a gesture of authority.

His eyes fastened on the face of the son of Lemuel Fawe, as though it was that old enemy himself.
"I have said what I have said, and there is no more to be spoken.