The Swiss soon discovered that their direction lay toward a very lofty mountain visible on the north-west. They learned, on enquiry, that this was the Boekit Doesson. It was not a mountain range, but more like an elevated plateau which formed the base and starting point of the numerous peaks constituting the central highlands of the country. The road—if the track formed by human feet among the luxurious vegetation could be so called—was not difficult. It undulated between gently inclining hills and only tried their powers when it became intersected by the innumerable brooks which rushed through the deep hollows of the clayey soil. Here, however, they generally availed themselves of the opportunity to take a bath in the clear fluid, a refreshment which neither gave trouble nor caused delay to the sparsely-clad travellers. During these ablutions careful watch continued to be kept; one-half of the men enjoyed the bath, while the remainder rifle in hand remained on guard. Nothing of a suspicious nature was, however, observed; not a human soul was seen. They could almost imagine themselves to be on a desert island. But during one of these halts the travellers found reason to know that they were not unobserved. A fine ironwood tree adjacent to their resting-place had attracted Wienersdorf’s attention. He approached it to gaze upon the giant which, rising like a column, proudly erected its magnificent crown of rich foliage one hundred and fifty feet in the air. A couple of squares formed by vertical and horizontal cuts in the trunk, led him to fancy that the bark had been removed by human hands. He noticed also, that the new growth over this area was of later date than the surrounding bark. He stood there looking a little longer and then drawing his knife he commenced to carve a colossal W in the middle of one of the squares, intending to add the initial of Hamadoe’s name and to enclose both in the figure of a heart. While thus occupied a whistling noise caused him to look around, when he saw a small arrow enter the tree between his head and hand. With the quickness of lightning he drew back, presented his rifle, and fired into some shrubs behind which he perceived some movement. All his companions hurried toward, him in alarm, when he pointed to the little arrow sticking in the tree. The Europeans presented their rifles to clear the ground with a prompt volley. Harimaoung Boekit, however, interposed, depressed their rifles and uttered a cry, followed by a few words in another language not intelligible to his companions. The Poenan then remained for some moments in an attitude of expectation, his countenance betraying the deepest anxiety. At last a few hoarse sounds were heard in reply, whereupon Harimaoung’s face cleared up and he assured his friends that all danger was passed. The people living here were Ott Njawongs, a tribe with which he was on friendly terms, but he begged that the tree