The seams were deep-graven,
more like scars, while the stern features were in no way softened by
hints of sympathy or humor. Under prominent bushy brows the eyes shone
cold and gray. The cheekbones, high and forbidding, were undermined by
deep hollows. The chin and jaw displayed a steadiness of purpose which
the narrow forehead advertised as single, and, if needs be, pitiless.
Everything was harsh, the nose, the lips, the voice, the lines about the
mouth. It was the face of one who communed much with himself, unused to
seeking counsel from the world; the face of one who wrestled oft of
nights with angels, and rose to face the day with shut lips that no man
might know. He was narrow but deep; and Fortune, his own humanity broad
and shallow, could make nothing of him. Did Uri sing when merry and sigh
when sad, he could have understood; but as it was, the cryptic features
were undecipherable; he could not measure the soul they concealed.
"Lend a hand, Mister Man," Uri ordered when the cups had been emptied.
"We've got to fix up for visitors."
Fortune purred his name for the other's benefit, and assisted
understandingly.
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