His eyes, indeed, were almost transparent with
light--a light so clear, benignant, and strong, that it was impossible
to withstand their glance, radiant with benevolence though it was. The
surrender to that glance, however, was a willing and a pleasing one. The
spectator submitted to it as an individual would to the eye of a blessed
spirit that was known to communicate nothing but good. There, then, they
sat contemplating one another, each, as it were, in the exercise of some
particular power, which, in this case, appeared to depend altogether
on the expressions of the eye. The gaze was long and combative in its
character, and constituted a trial of that moral strength which each,
in the peculiar constitution of his being, seemed to possess. After some
time, however, Woodward's glance seemed to lose its concentrative
power, and gradually to become vague and blank. In a little time he felt
himself rapidly losing ground, and could hardly avoid thinking that
the eyes of his opponent were looking into his very soul: his eyelids
quivered, his eyes assumed a dull and listless appearance, and
ultimately closed for some moments--he was vanquished, and he felt it.
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