I regarded more cautiously the character of the old man. His dominant expression drew sympathy in its ancient complexion. The tallow colored skin hung over his face and arms, sagging with white-haired limpness. This, however, was not expressive of the man’s true nature. Not one fragment of his stony heart had softened over the years, and there seemed to be a strange contradiction between his harmless inability of motion and the cruel gleam of his dark eyes. With those eyes, he spoke of the hate and vengeance for the misdeeds against him of old which had eaten at his mind for long years in the neglected vault of his heart, with no alteration from the intentions of his vindictive plan. Despite this evidence of utter corruption, his mind had no mark of insanity, only of tarnish, sullied without proper correction. To the perception of a careless observer, thus, he appeared to be no different from any other wizened old man, yet, his very soul, covered in the blackest hatred, followed its rutted course down from the blessed road, until it became lost in the fiery pit of hell.