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.