ior 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.

Braxton Wyatt, a year or two older than Paul, had always been disliked at
Wareville. Of a sarcastic, sneering, unpleasant temperament, he habitually
made enemies, and did not seem to care. Paul disliked hi