So they came out on deck, and Crawford was helped to climb over the side to the ice. There the crew were grouped about the longboat or pinnace, which was choked upon runners with ropes attached for pulling, and a tiny skiff which six of them picked up bodily. Three scurvy-staggering rascals bawled thin farewells from the rail above. “Compass in pinnace, bose?” asked Deakin. “Then come along to open water.” He marched in the lead, a huge, ungainly figure, with Crawford on the line behind him. The men followed, carrying the skiff and dragging the pinnace on its sled. Thick fog was settled down about the _Albemarle_, and in ten paces she was lost to sight behind them. Under that fog, all was dark; the slanting sunlight of the arctic summer’s night was lost for a little while, ice and melted pools held obscure terror instead of fiery rainbow-hued splendour. Moses Deakin lifted his head, sniffed with his wide nostrils, and like an animal led straight for the open water which he could smell. In this fashion half a mile was covered, the last of it being very precarious, since the floes were split into great cakes, while sharp cracks and reports told how further splitting was in progress. Then, abruptly, Deakin halted at the very edge of open water, swirling dark and ice-dotted as far as eye could pierce. “Wind on the shift and ice be goin’ out to-morrow,” he announced, though Crawford could detect no faintest breath of breeze. “Launch the craft, now. Current settin’ out--good! Into the skiff, Crawford.” Still far from realizing what was intended, Crawford climbed into the skiff while the men held it to the verge of the floe. Deakin leaned over the little craft, which was empty of oars or anything else, and lashed the captive’s lead-line about a thwart. Then he unsheathed his knife and tossed it into the bottom of the skiff, took the craft by her stern, and with one mighty heave sent her swirling out into the foggy water. “By the time ye get yourself free, ye’ll be safe enough!” came his roaring bellow. “And you’re warlock enough to reach the shore. Fare ye well, Crawford! Now, lads, get matches lighted and into the pinnace with ye all! We’re off for Crawford’s bark----” The fog closed in. Its chill was no worse than the chill in Crawford’s heart as the swift currents bore his little skiff out into the bay.