The Prisoner in the Opal by A.E.W. Mason — Read

The cry had a sound so imperative that the delicate question of Mr. Ricardo's conduct was clean forgotten. There was a rush to Victor Corbie, but not until they stood behind his shoulders could they see what he was seeing. The sight gave a queer little shock to everyone and begat an uneasiness, as things which are odd and bizarre are likely to do. Perhaps, too, they were all now rather ready to be startled and to see miracles at each turn of their road. They were confounded to observe amongst the leaves of the branch at which Corbie pointed, bending down towards them as though it watched them, a face and head. By some chance a spray had blown across the eyes and hid them, but the rest of the face was revealed. It was quite livid in colour with full lips, not so much red in colour as a dark purple. The hair, on the other hand, was a bright red. The contour of the face was quite beautiful, but the whole effect was evil -- abominably evil.

They were still contemplating this extraordinary spectacle when some breath of wind blew aside the spray which hid the eyes; and it was at once visible that though there were long black eyelashes, as silken as the lashes of a lovely girl, there were no eyes. The face was a mask, but of an artistry which was exquisite and astounding.