They now marched on with increased speed and at daybreak found themselves near a little hill situated like Oepon Batoe on the bank of the river, which hurried by below this point in a wild cataract. This was Kiham Batoe Naroi, the most difficult as well as the largest fall on the Kahajan, though owing to the breadth of the stream by no means the most dangerous. Harimaoung Boekit here divided his little band into two companies. The smaller one mounted the heights and remained concealed in a recess of the rocky wall which commanded the curve of the river for a considerable distance. The other division was posted at the foot of the hill in order to cut off the retreat of the Doessonese, the men being instructed to keep themselves hidden behind rocks and shrubs until the moment for action should arrive. As the Poenan chief had foreseen, a considerable time elapsed before the expected rangkan came in sight. The spies reported that it was manned by twenty oarsmen, but that nothing could be seen of the prisoner. As the boat approached, however, they distinguished Schlickeisen lying at the bottom in a most deplorable condition, tied hand and foot and perfectly naked. The rangkan made for the intricate passage of the kiham. Here in the country of their enemies, the Doessonese could not venture on land in order to guide their boat with a cable; they must row through the rapids despite the extreme difficulty of the feat. The rowers manipulated their oars magnificently and guided their craft with marvellous skill, now urging it forward calmly and steadily, and deftly keeping it afloat in the raging flood until all the difficulties of passage were successfully overcome. One more leap forward and the rangkan would have floated on calm water, when lo! a shot was heard. The foremost rower dropped his oar and fell back among his companions mortally wounded. Another and another shot, always with the same fatal result. Wienersdorf had put aside all his humane compassion: his sole aim was the deliverance of his faithful companion. Not a bullet must be thrown away, for the shot that failed to reach its mark would certainly imperil the safety of his friend. Kneeling down like a bronze statue he supported the stock of his rifle against his shoulder and aimed as if his whole existence, yea, his very soul, depended upon the line which his bullets must follow. The index of his right hand moved mechanically in manipulation of the trigger, and bullet after bullet carried death to the crew of the rangkan. Four of the oarsmen had been killed before the men could realize their position. They had not heard the noise of the firing, owing to the roar of the waters, but when they saw several of their crew writhing in their last agonies, they looked anxiously around and discerned the thin clouds of smoke rising along the dark wall of the rock. The Captain of the rangkan endeavored to preserve some order among his men by