Coward of the Clan

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The first thing that Paul Torridon remembered was being led by the hand to a tall man with long hair and a short gray beard, a beard that was chopped off brutally, for convenience rather than for appearance. Seen from the back with his curls flowing down over his shoulders, John Brett looked the portrait of some chivalrous cavalier. Seen from the front with that blunt stub of a beard, he seemed partly grotesque, partly savage. To heighten the contrast, his beard had turned while his hair still remained a glossy, youthful black.

Of what had gone before, Paul Torridon had no idea, but something about the face of this giant pierced his mind and remained in his thoughts forever.

“Is this one of them? Is this one of them?” shouted John Brett. “Why did you bring this thing home to me?”

“Shall I take him back and turn him loose in the woods?” asked the man who held the hand of Paul. “That’ll answer the same purpose.”

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