At last we gave up the attempt in despair.  More valuable time had thus been lost.  Red Squirrel urged us to go on, saying that he thought he could guide us by the wind.  On and on we went.  The snow fell as thickly as ever.  At last Hugh declared that he could go no further.  We were both suffering from fearful pains in our ankles--the _mal de raquette_, as the French Canadians call it, produced by the pressure of the snow-shoe straps.