The road bore away to the left, and we were soon slipping and jolting down a mountain path that sank into a crater-like ravine. It was like a descent into the infernal regions. Disaster seemed inevitable. A mistake by the pony or the slightest lurch would have precipitated us down some hundreds of feet; but the guide knew his way and so did the pony, as, sure-footed and cautious, it picked its way, first on one side of the road and then on the other, descending, descending, lower and lower, where the pale light failed to penetrate. The hill on the other side loomed so high that one could not believe there was a way out. Pit-pat, pit-pat went the pony with steady step, now on hard road now on yielding lava mud, across fragile bamboo bridges covered with bamboo lathing, down, down, down till at last we reach the ford. The seat was not an easy one for the unaccustomed rider, whose hands and feet were chilled almost beyond feeling by the unwonted cold. But it was arm-chair ease compared with the experience on the other side, as the pony pluckily pounded his way up the zigzag path for the summit of the hill. How either guide or pony could see a path will ever remain a puzzle. The over-hanging vegetation blotted out any recognisable landmarks; not even the ribbon of a road was visible to the eye. But the top was reached, and believing we were now on the level road for Penandjaan we tried to open up conversation with our guide. It is not easy to carry on a connected conversation with a native of the Teng'ger when one's Malay vocabulary consists of about twenty words--and half of these numerals--and the native's knowledge of the English language, as one soon learned, consists entirely of "Yes" and "No." Yet, it is wonderful what one will attempt in the dark--the loneliness was so overpowering that one felt compelled to break the awesome silence. [Illustration: ROAD TO TOSARI.]