The short winter day was nearly done before a rude raft was made, and on it the two embarked. The piercing wind dashed their frail contrivance about, and it was buffeted by the floating ice. The Indian’s gun was lost, but their powder, in an oilskin knapsack, which George carried on his back, escaped wetting, although he himself, as well as Lance, was drenched to the skin. They could not make the opposite shore, but were forced to land on an island, where they spent the night. The hardships told on the older man, and George saw, by the despairing look in Lance’s eyes, that he could do no more that day. Wood, however, was plentiful, and a great fire was made.