The crossing of the river was to Paul like passing over a great wall that would divide him forever from his own.

All his vivid imagination was alive, and it painted the picture in its darkest and most somber colors.
They reached the northern shore without difficulty, hid the canoes for future use, and resumed their leisurely journey northward.

Braxton Wyatt, who seemed to Paul to have much freedom, resumed his advances toward a renewal of the old friendship, but Paul was resolute.

He could not overcome his repulsion, Braxton Wyatt might plead, and make excuses, and talk about the terror of torture and death, but Paul remained unconvinced.
He himself had not flinched at the crucial moment to undo what Wyatt was doing, and in his heart he could find no forgiveness for the one whom he called a renegade.
Wyatt refused to take offense.

He said, and Paul could not but hear, that Paul some day would be grateful for what he was doing, and that it was necessary in the forest to meet craft with craft, guile with guile.
The days passed in hunting, eating, resting, and marching, and Paul lost count of time, distance, and direction.