An old man, clothed in picturesque patches and tatters, paused and
leaned on his stout oak staff. He was tired. He drew off his rusty
felt hat, swept a sleeve across his forehead, and sighed. He had
walked many miles that day, and even now the journey's end, near as
it really was, seemed far away. Ah, but he would sleep soundly that
night, whether the bed were of earth or of straw. His peasant garb
rather enhanced his fine head. His eyes were blue and clear and
far-seeing, the eyes of a hunter or a woodsman, of a man who
watches the shadows in the forest at night or the dim, wavering
lines on the horizon at daytime; things near or far or roundabout.
His brow was high, his nose large and bridged; a face of more
angles than contours, bristling with gray spikes, like one who has
gone unshaven several days. His hands, folded over the round,
polished knuckle of his staff, were tanned and soiled, but they
were long and slender, and the callouses were pink, a certain
indication that they were fresh.
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