Equally
swift was his observance of the fact that the tent with which he
had covered the aperture was gone, and that his rifle, with the
weight of which he had held the tent in place, had disappeared.
Bram had secured possession of them before he had roused himself.
It was not the loss of these things, or entirely Bram's sudden and
unexpected appearance, that sent through him the odd thrill, which
he experienced. It was Bram's face, his eyes, the tense and
mysterious earnestness that was in his gaze. It was not the
watchfulness of a victor looking at his victim. In it there was no
sign of hatred or of exultation. There was not even unfriendliness
there. Rather it was the study of one filled with doubt and
uneasiness, and confronted by a question which he could not
answer. There was not a line of the face which Philip could not
see now--its high cheek-bones, its wide cheeks, the low forehead,
the flat nose, the thick lips. Only the eyes kept it from being a
terrible face. Straight down through the generations Bram must
have inherited those eyes from some woman of the past.
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