had, he would have looked for his double among the fiends on the top of
Notre Dame. There was, in fact, nothing like him on this earth, only
in a very hot place not on the earth.

He was, in short, a beast with brains that only man, and no beast,
ought to be trusted with; and he had no soul. God alone knows if love,
which softens most creatures, had ever come to Gulo; his behavior
seemed to show that it had not. Perhaps love was afraid of him. And,
upon my soul, I don't wonder.

It was not, however, a hot, but a very cold, place in the pine-forest
where Gulo stood, and the unpitying moon cast a dainty tracery through
the tasseled roof upon the new and glistening snow around him--the snow
that comes early to those parts--and the north-east wind cut like
several razors. But Gulo did not seem to care. Wrapped up in his
ragged, long, untidy, uncleanly-looking, brown-black cloak--just his
gray-sided, black fiend's face poking out--he seemed warm enough. When
he lifted one paw to scratch, one saw that the murderous, scraping,
long claws of him were nearly white; and as he set his lips in a
devilish grin, his fangs glistened white in the moonlight, too.

Verily, this was no beast--he would have taped four feet and a quarter
from tip to tip, if you had worn chain-mail and dared to measure
him--no beast, I say, to handle with white-kid ball gloves. Things
were possible from him, one felt, that were not possible of any other
living creature--awful things.

Suddenly he looked up. The branches above him had stirred uneasily, as
if an army were asleep there. And an army was--of wood-pigeons.
Thousands upon thousands of wood-pigeons were asleep above his head,