Paul was either killed or too badly wounded to walk, and somehow in the darkness they had missed him.

The schoolmaster's face blanched at the news.

Paul had been his favorite pupil.
"My God!" he groaned, "to think of the poor lad in the hands of those devils!" Henry Ware stood beside the master, when he uttered these words, wrenched by despair from the very bottom of his chest.

Pain shot through his own heart, as if it had been touched by a knife.

Paul, the well-beloved comrade of his youth, captured and subjected to the torture! His blood turned to ice in his veins.