gather willow faggots, and bind them into a raft. But
the green wood sank so {101} easily that only one man could get upon
the raft: to paddle or pole it in the running water was impossible. A
line was made of strips of skin, and Richardson volunteered to swim the
river so as to haul the raft across with the line. The bitter cold of
the water paralysed his limbs. He was seen to sink beneath the leaping
waters. His companions dragged him back to the bank, where for hours
he lay as if lifeless beside the fire of willow branches, so emaciated
that he seemed a mere skeleton when they took off his wet clothing.
His comrades gazed at him with a sort of horror. Thus for days they
waited. At last, with infinite patience, one of the Canadians made a
sort of canoe with willow sticks and canvas. In this, with a line
attached, they crossed the river one by one.

They were now only forty miles from Fort Enterprise. But their
strength was failing. Hood could not go on. The party divided.
Franklin and Back went forward with most of the men, while Richardson
and sailor Hepburn volunteered to stay with Hood till help could be
sent. The others left them in a little tent, with some rounds of
ammunition and willow branches gathered for the fire. A little further
on the march, three of Franklin's followers, {102} too exhausted to go
on, dropped out, proposing to make their way back to Richardson and
Hood.

The little party at the tent in the snow waited in vain. Days passed,
and no help came. One of the three men who had left Franklin, an
Indian called Michel, joined them, saying that the others had gone
astray in the snow. But he was strange and sullen, sleeping apart and
wandering off by himself to hunt. Presently, from the man's strange
talk and from some meat which he brought back from his hunting and
declared to be part of a wolf, Richardson realized the awful truth that
Michel had killed his companions and was feeding on their bodies. A
worse thing followed. Richardson and Hepburn, gathering wood a few
days later, heard the report of a gun from beside the fire where they
had left Lieutenant Hood, who was now in the last stage of exhaustion.
They returned to find Michel beside the dead body of their comrade. He
had been shot through the back of the head. Michel swore that Hood had
killed himself. Richardson knew the truth, but both he and Hepburn
were too enfeebled by privation to offer fight to the armed and
po