"The sergeant who, by the way, was a foreigner, took charge of the burial ceremonials, and was evidently quite determined that, for his part, nothing should be lacking which the importance of the occasion demanded. Drawing his sword, and placing himself between the graves, he harangued the spectators. 'Men,' he said, 'this day two servants of the Government have lost their lives at the hands of each other. Were they not both good men? hein.' 'One man very bad man,' chipped in an officious convict, but a glance from the offended sergeant made him wish that he had never spoken. 'Whether they will both go to heaven I cannot say,' exclaimed he, 'but I think Allah'--pointing upwards with his sword--'will first purge them with a fire. Take this as a lesson.' Then, drawing himself up to his full height as befitted the occasion, he returned his sword with a clank to the scabbard, and, as far as the public was concerned, the ceremony was at an end. The sergeant, however, had not yet finished. Returning to his hut, he refreshed himself with a few glasses of gin, and played on the mouth-organ the national anthems of the three flags under which he had served. This terminated the funeral obsequies, and with the exception of the official report and the entry in the accounts 'To one bottle gin for disinfecting corpse,' nothing remained to mark the sanguinary affair." The Iwaka was safely reached, and the last stage began. At first the advance was up its right bank, but this only brought the travellers back to the upper glen of the Wataikwa, which they had already found impossible. It was clear that the Iwaka must be crossed and the ridges to the east ascended. Getting over that stream was an ugly business, and it was achieved only by the heroism of one of the Gurkhas, who managed to haul himself hand over hand along a thin rope. Captain Rawling records that it was "one of the best actions carried out in cold blood that I have ever had the good fortune to witness." A rough bridge was constructed, and on the morning of February 8, 1911, thirteen months after their first landing on the coast, the party had at last a road to the upper ridges. It was thick, misty weather, and of the farther mountains they only had occasional glimpses. Camp was pitched at an altitude of 5,400 feet, but not on solid ground, for all the climbing had been done on the top of live or dead timber. The following morning they hacked their way to a clear space on the ridge at a height of 5,600 feet, and there they were at last favoured with the view for which they had longed, and were able to fix the position of the main peaks.