Though his voice, while he spoke, never rose beyond a
hoarse, monotonous, half-whispering tone, all the ferocity of his abused
and degraded nature was for the instant thoroughly aroused by his
recapitulation of his wrongs. Had Vetranio at this moment shown any
symptoms of indecision, or spoken any words of discouragement, he would
have murdered him on the spot where they stood. Every feature in the
Pagan's seared and livid countenance expressed the stormy emotions that
were rushing over his heart as he now confronted his bewildered yet
attentive listener. His firm, menacing position; his poor and scanty
garments; his wild, shaggy hair; his crooked, distorted form; his stern,
solemn, unwavering gaze--opposed as they were (under the fitful
illumination of the expiring lamp and the advancing daylight) to the
unsteady gait, the vacant countenance, the rich robes, the youthful
grace of form and delicacy of feature of the object of his steady
contemplation, made so wild and strange a contrast between his patrician
ally and himself that they scarcely looked like beings of the same race.
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