Steaming along the coast amid the shoals somewhat delayed our passage; but arriving off Benggaya we tried to find the river; in this we failed, but the following morning two canoes pulled off from shore, and on reaching us proved to contain some of the crew of the _Dolphin_, and a messenger from Sherif Yasin. The men said the vessel was safe up the river, and that the cargo was on board, and at the village and untouched, and that they themselves had been fed and well treated by the chief of Benggaya. Starting again, we found the entrance very shallow; but as the tide rose we entered and pulled up the stream. It might easily be passed, as the branch to the right appeared the broader of the two. To reach the houses it is necessary to keep the left-hand branches for about ten miles from the sea, and then the first to the right, and you arrive at the village after about twenty miles’ more pull. The flood tide moved us lazily along by banks of the everlasting mangrove and nipa, occasionally diversified by a little high land with heavy jungle trees. As we advanced, we met a boat with Sherif Idrus, Yasin’s father-in-law, coming to meet us. I told him we would ascend to the village, and he preceded us. About sunset we reached the schooner, anchored in a narrow part of the river; a dozen of the Tuanku’s men were on guard, and we found the hatches nailed down, and the door of the cabin secured, to prevent the goods being meddled with; blood was sprinkled on the white paint in the cabin, and still darkly defaced the deck. After a short conversation, I found that although the schooner was anchored above fifteen miles from the river’s mouth, the village was at least that distance farther off. To save a day, therefore, I determined to go up to the town myself that night in the Tuanku’s boat, and a friend accompanying me, we started. Before we stopped, I had reason to congratulate myself on my determination. Had we tried to ascend next day in the ship’s boats, we should scarcely have arrived by sunset, but a strong crew in a light canoe, pulling hard, enabled us to reach Benggaya village about half-past nine. The moon shone brightly through the trees, casting a clear light over a scene sufficiently curious. The narrow river was spanned by a light, rough wooden bridge, a shade better than a Dayak one. A few houses well lighted were on the opposite bank to the large dwelling of the chief. Sherif Idrus took us by the hand and led us up to Sherif Yasin, who begged us to be seated. It was the first time since a memorable occasion that he had seen an European. The room was very large, being, in fact, the principal portion of the house; there was a raised sleeping place on one side, and before us was the chief’s bed, where his women were hidden by a curtain that fell round it. The Sherif sat on the end, and we opposite, on boards covered with white cloth.