"What a fool I am! what a miserable careless fool!" he cried, in tones of despair. "I knew it was empty two days ago and meant to refill it. But I didn't, and now I must suffer the consequences. What shall I do? What shall I do? A night in this place without a fire will drive me crazy, even if I don't freeze to death before morning." As Phil gazed about him in a very agony of apprehension his glance rested on his rifle leaning against a tree, and a ray of hope entered his heart. There was fire if he could only capture and control it. How was it that wrecked sailors, and lost hunters, and all sorts of people always managed to obtain fire from a gun, or rather from a pistol, which was practically the same thing? He tried to recall what he had read of such experiences. Oh yes! It was by flashing powder in the pan. But his gun hadn't any pan. He had never seen one that had, unless it was Kurilla's flintlock. Of course, now he remembered, it did have a place into which the Indian used to pour a little powder every time he wanted to fire his old blunderbuss. How Phil wished his Winchester were a flintlock musket just at that moment. But it wasn't, and it didn't have any pan, and loose powder was not used in connection with it. But there was plenty of powder encased in its metallic cartridges if only he could get at it, and could contrive some plan for adapting it to his purpose. All these ideas passed like a flash, and Phil had hardly thought of powder before he was examining one of his cartridges, and trying to dig the bullet out of its metal shell with the point of his knife. But it was held too tightly, and he only pricked his fingers. Then another plan came into his mind. He laid his rifle on the ground. Over its stock he spread a square of cotton cloth, such as he and Serge were accustomed to tear from the great piece provided among their stores whenever they needed clean handkerchiefs. On the cloth Phil laid a cartridge, that he held in position with the sharp edge of his knife blade, placed so that it would cut just at the base of the bullet. Then he struck the back of the blade a smart blow with a billet of wood, and the job was done. He had got at the powder. He poured out two-thirds of the precious mixture, and rubbed it well into one side of the cloth, which he doubled twice and used against the log. Then, after stopping the open end of the shell with a tiny wad of lint to keep the remainder of the powder from running out, he inserted it in the chamber of his rifle. Aiming it at the cloth, with the muzzle about one foot away, and trembling with cold, or excitement, or anxiety, or with all three, he pulled the trigger.