The person of the stranger --let me call him by this title,
who to all the world was still a stranger --the person of the stranger
is one of these subjects. In height he might have been below rather
than above the medium size: although there were moments of intense
passion when his frame actually expanded and belled the assertion. The
light, almost slender symmetry of his figure, promised more of that
ready activity which he evinced at the Bridge of Sighs, than of that
Herculean strength which he has been known to wield without an effort,
upon occasions of more dangerous emergency. With the mouth and chin of
a deity --singular, wild, full, liquid eyes, whose shadows varied from
pure hazel to intense and brilliant jet --and a profusion of
curling, black hair, from which a forehead of unusual breadth
gleamed forth at intervals all light and ivory --his were features
than which I have seen none more classically regular, except, perhaps,
the marble ones of the Emperor Commodus. Yet his countenance was,
nevertheless, one of those which all men have seen at some period of
their lives, and have never afterwards seen again. It had no
peculiar --it had no settled predominant expression to be fastened
upon the memory; a countenance seen and instantly forgotten --but
forgotten with a vague and never-ceasing desire of recalling it to
mind.
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