Henry understood him.
His life was to be spared for the present, at least, and he was to go with them into the northwest, but to what fate he knew not.
One of the warriors bathed his head, and put upon it a lotion of leaves which quickly drove away the pain.

Henry suffered his ministrations with primitive stoicism, making no comment and showing no interest.
At a word from the leader they took up their silent march, skirting the river for a while until they came to a shallow place, where they forded it, and buried themselves again in the dark forest.

They passed among its shades swiftly, silently and in single file, Henry near the middle of the column, his figure in the dusk blending into the brown of theirs.
He had completely recovered his strength, and, save for the separation from his friends and their consequent wonder and sorrow, he would not have grieved over the mischance.

Instinct told him--perhaps it was his youth, perhaps his ready adaptability that appealed to his captors--that his life was safe--and now he felt a keen curiosity to know the outcome.
It seemed to him too that without any will of his own he was about to begin the vast wanderings that he had coveted.
Hour after hour the silent file trod swiftly on into the northwest, no one speaking, their footfalls making no sound on the soft earth.

The moonlight deepened again, and veiled the trunks and branches in ghostly silver or gray.