His anger fell from him like a cloak shed when the sun shines in his strength.
The Lady Sybilla's face showed of no earthly paleness.

Marble white it was, the eyes heavy with weeping, purple rings beneath accentuating the horror that dwelt eternally in them.

The lips that had been as the bow of Apollo were parted as though they had been singing the dirge of one beloved, and ever as she rode the tears ran down her cheeks and fell on her white robe, and lower upon her palfrey's mane.
She looked at Sholto when he came near, but not as one who sees or recognises.

Rather, as it were, dumb, drunken, besotted with grief, looked forth the soul of the Lady Sybilla upon the captain of the Douglas guard.

She heeded not his angry shout, for another voice rang in her ears, speaking the knightliest words ever uttered by a man about to die.