His bonds were not the same as those which had kept him a prisoner before, and by working diligently over them, he managed at last to get one hand free. The other quickly followed, and then he freed his feet. He was alone in the wigwam, the Indians in the village having gathered to hold a pow-wow, the question being how much they should do to aid Moon Eye and Jean Bevoir. The Indians had no desire to become hurt in a battle, yet they were anxious to obtain some of the many gifts which Bevoir had promised them in case of a victory over the English. With great caution Henry looked out of the wigwam and surveyed the situation. The camp was close to the river bank and was backed up by the virgin forest, which, at this point, was rough and uncertain. It would be an easy matter to hide in the forest, but the question arose, what should he do when he got there? “Well, anything is better than being a prisoner,” he mused. “I’ll take what I can lay my hands on and get out.” He looked about him and managed to secure an old hunting knife and likewise a pretty fair bow and several arrows. It was growing dark, and at the risk of being seen he stole to a place where the Indians had stored some blankets and some provisions. He supplied himself with what he wanted, and then, like a ghost, glided into the mighty forest. “Now for the trading post,” he muttered to himself. “By hook or crook, I must get there, and pray Heaven I get there before it is too late!” He knew that in order to reach the post he would have to keep close to the river. He imagined the trading post was about three miles away, although he was by no means sure. Traveling through the forest in the dark proved to be a harder task than Henry had anticipated. He went plunging along until several falls knocked the wind completely out of him and barked his shins mightily. At last he had to give it up and turned to the river, resolved to travel on the ice, even though the danger might be greater. Coming down to the open he gazed around, and seeing nobody, stepped on the ice. It appeared to be firm, and he started on a swift trot, straight for the trading post. Crack! Henry had not been on the ice over a minute when this ominous sound greeted him. He had come to where the surface was more than slushy. The ice bent beneath him. “This won’t do!” he cried, and tried to turn toward the shore once more. But the movement came too late; down went the ice and Henry with it, and the next instant he was over his head in the chilling water. Had Henry not been so robust and such a good swimmer he would have perished on the spot. As it was, the coldness of the water almost paralyzed him, and when he went down he could do little but gasp and splutter and reach out blindly. Then, when he came up, his head hit the under surface of the ice, and down he went as before.