“If strength makes a man ugly, Uther may claim ugliness.”
“Well?”
“Picture a dark man with black hair, eyes packed away under heavy brows, a straight mouth, and a great clean-shaven jaw that looks sullen as death.”
“Not beautiful in words.”
Gorlois stretched his shoulders, and half yawned behind his hand.
“Uther is a man with a conscience like a north wind,” he said; “always lashing him into tremendous effort for the sake of duty. He has the head and neck of a lion, the grip of a bear. You have never known Uther till you have seen him in battle. Then he is like a mountain thundering down against a sea, a black flood plunging through a pine forest. A quaint, gentle, devilish, God-ridden madman; I can paint him no other way.”
Igraine laughed softly to herself.
“A man worth seeing,” she said.
“I should judge so.”