All now turned their attention to the condition of Schlickeisen. Harimaoung Boekit informed his companions that he was in no danger from his wounds. He had only been tattooed. This proved to have really been the case. When the inflammation subsided Schlickeisen related all that had befallen him. After the disappearance of his company up the rock, he and the four wounded Dayaks had been overtaken by a troop of Doessonese coming down the river. They had suddenly appeared and their attack had been so wholly unexpected, that before the Dayaks could defend themselves they were decapitated. Schlickeisen owed his escape from the same fate to the fact that while struggling his jacket became torn and discovered his white skin. His assailants exclaiming “Olo bapoeti!” threw themselves upon him, pinioned and led him away prisoner. He heard his captors speak of carrying him to Soerapatti, who would deliver him up to the government at Bandjermasin, in the hope of thus securing a peaceable footing with the Dutch. Naturally they had no idea that their prisoner was a deserter from the Dutch army. But the proposal to spare this prisoner—a white man; the thought that so valuable a skull should escape them, almost infuriated these wild savages, until by way of a joke, some wag suggested that they should tattoo him and then offer the Dutch government a tattooed white face. One of the company then produced a pantoek, or needle, and immediately commenced to prick small wounds on the skin of the captive, designing the usual fantastic figures. These punctures were made by placing the point of the needle in the skin, forcing it in by gentle taps. The wounds were then washed with hot water to produce a copious hæmorrhage, and afterwards with melon juice, an application which made the patient roar with agony. When the wounds became swollen and inflamed they were smeared with a thick solution of indigo. The sufferer was then left in the most agonizing pain, exposed to the full force of the sun’s heat without any covering. He suffered terrible thirst, yet no one offered him a drop of water. A febrile condition necessarily ensued, rendering him wholly insensible. Thus had he lain the whole night until frightened out of his lethargy by a succession of rifle shots. He had then called aloud for help, but tortured by the most excruciating agony he had again lost consciousness. When recovered from this insensibility it was to find himself surrounded by his friends. “You have escaped through the eye of a needle,” said La Cueille, “but it is a pity that those fellows did not paint you all the way down. You would have looked very much like wall paper; just like that Poenan over there. How handsome you would have been? Ah, won’t the young ladies of Switzerland admire you!”