A faint breath of wind fanned his cheek. There was no lift to the fog, which rolled down more thick and dark than ever, nor was the little breeze likely to rift it. Crawford, facing the situation, found himself in total ignorance of direction. If the breeze came from the east, as Deakin had said, he would be carried off the land. He had no food or water, no blankets or sail; he had only the clothes on his back, the naked knife, and the light line which had captived him. With these things, he went to work. Despite the bitter chill of the fog, he was forced to dispense with his outer fur-lined coat. Then he smashed the ’midships thwart of the boat and split the long plank lengthwise until he had sticks to serve his purpose. These he fitted and spliced together with unravelled hemp, until he had a stout six-foot mast. Another stick in the arms of the coat made a very fair dipping-lug rig. To get this rig installed was another matter. Eventually, however, he had the mast stayed in place, got up his makeshift sail, made fast the lines, and chuckled softly as he felt the faint breeze take hold. He lay across the thwarts and heard the water go rippling more swiftly past the counter. “Warlock indeed!” he commented, with a laugh. “The Star of Dreams is still guiding, and whither the star goes, I follow. It may well be that there is some truth behind all this rank superstition--singular, how Deakin spoke of the Star Woman! Coincidence in the names, of course--yet I wonder!” He laughed again at the fancy, but quickly sobered. Crawford himself was tempted to be a trifle superstitious about that emerald star. First he had taken it as a symbol of his own flight from the world, of his quest after a freedom that did not exist. From talking of it with Frontin or Sir Phelim Burke, a reaction had inevitably taken effect upon his own mind. He fought against this and scorned it, yet none the less it lingered. Consequently, Deakin’s belief in a connection between star and Star Woman made an appeal to him--until he forced himself to dismiss the whole thing as the wanderings of an unsound brain, the superstitious fancy of a bestial man. “The Danish river!” he reflected, coming back again to his immediate problems. “If I knew where that place lay, and had food, I believe I’d try for it----” He was now out of the ice and distinctly warmer, the breeze was freshening slightly, the fog was somewhat less dense. So, careless whither he was carried, he found the boat’s bottom to be sound and dry, and promptly curled up for a much-needed sleep.