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Sheathed in mail and armed, that face and bulky figure to some imaginations might have found its prototype in some huge, grim, war-worn "man-at-arms" of mediaeval times. Redmond judged him to be somewhere in his forties; forty-two was his exact age as he ascertained later. In curious contrast to his somewhat formidable exterior seemed his mild, gentle, soft-brogued voice.
There seemed something shockingly aboriginal simian in the swift, gorilla-like clutch of his huge dangling hands, as they fastened on the throat and shoulder of the drunken man and whirled him on his back in the snow something deadly and menacing in his hard-breathing, soft-brogued invective: "Yeh bloody nightingale! come off th' perch! . . . I'm fed up wid yeh! I'll waltz yeh!
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