As the moon cleared, more warriors drifted back into the glade.  Some of these, too, bore wounds, and Paul’s heart leaped up with fierce joy as he saw that they had been defeated.  The firing had ceased and the wilderness was returning to silence, broken only by the low words of the savages and the soft sound of their moccasins on the earth.

Paul was still in a sort of daze.  The warriors were grouped about him, their sole visible trophy of the battle, and they regarded him with vengeful eyes.  But he had passed through so much that he was not afraid.  His only feeling was that of dull stupefaction, and mingled with it a sort of lingering pride that his comrades had been the victors, although he himself was a prisoner.  He did not know whether they would kill him or take him with them, and at that moment his mind was so dulled that he felt little curiosity about the question.

A thin, sharp-faced warrior of middle years seemed to be the leader of the band, and he talked briefly to the others.  They nodded toward Paul, and then, with a warrior on each side of the prisoner, they started northward.  Paul, his brain clearing, judged that they were taking him as a trophy, as a prize to show in their village before putting him to death.

They marched silently through the forest, curving far to the left of the battlefield.  The warriors were about a score in number, and Paul thought they must have lost at least half as many in battle.  Their hideous paint and their savage faces filled him with repulsion.  Their wild life and the mystery of wild nature did not appeal to him as they had once appealed to Henry in a similar position.  To Paul, the chief thing about the wilderness was the magnificent home it would make in the future for a great white race.  Spared for the present, he expected to live.  Henry had saved him once, and he and his comrades would come again to the rescue.

He stumbled at first in their rapid flight from weakness, and the warrior next to him struck him a blow as a reminder.  Paul would have struck back, but his hands were tied, and he could only guard himself against another stumble.  Pride sustained him.

They did not stop until nearly dawn, when they camped by the bank of a creek and ate.  Paul’s arms were unbound, and the hatchet-faced chief tossed him a piece of venison, which he ate greedily because he was very hungry.  Then, as the warriors seemed in no hurry to move, he sagged slowly over on his side and went to sleep.  Despite his terrible situation, he was so thoroughly worn out that he could not hold up his head any longer.

When Paul awoke the sun was high, and he was lying where he had sunk down.  The warriors were about him, some sitting on the grass or lying full length, but the party seemed more numerous than it was the night before.  He looked again.  It was certainly more numerous, and there, too, sitting near him, was a white youth of nearly his own age.  Paul rose up, inspired with a feeling of sympathy, and perhaps of comradeship, and then, to his utter amazement, he saw that the youth was Braxton Wyatt, one of the boys who had come over the mountains with the group that had settled Wareville.