I felt very drowsy, as if suddenly awakened from a deep sleep. The story of the murder of Jayeng Rono was still ringing in my ears; the cunning leer of the Chinese was present to my mind’s eye; but where was I?—afloat or ashore?—or—and I shuddered at the thought—once more in that terrible nest-cavern?—or could I be really awake? No—it must be nightmare. If so, a turn over upon my side—for I was lying upon my back—would be sufficient. Well, I did turn—ay, over and over again—and that proved I was not asleep in the sampan; but it proved another disagreeable fact—namely, that I was stark naked, and rolling upon a dry, sandy earth. Then the thought flashed through my brain that I had been hocused—as it is termed in New York police-courts—by the Chinese rogue; that the mangosteen of which we had partaken with so much relish must have been steeped in some narcotic plant. But my brother—where was he? On that head, however, I was soon set at ease; for, coming to, I suppose, almost at the same moment as myself, he cried out:

“Claud, old fellow!”

“Ay, ay, Martin.”

“Thank heaven, you are here somewhere,” he replied; “but where the deuce are we? It is very dark—I can’t see. Is it to-day, to-morrow, or yesterday?”

“To-day, I think; but I don’t know.”

“Then which end—night or morning?”

“That I don’t know; but I should say morning.”

“Ah! I have it,” he added, quickly; “we have been half-poisoned by that rascally Chinese. Hang the thief! he has come in for a pretty thing, our boat, rifles, and game.”

“Then he hasn’t stripped you of your clothes, Martin?”

“Ah! but he has, though, the rogue!—only I thought of my rifle and game first.”

“Come, Martin,” said I, “there is one consolation; there seems to have been neither mosquitoes nor white ants about, since we have been here.”

“Bother! but I don’t know that—every here and there I feel as if I had been drilled. When the light comes, perhaps we shall find ourselves as full of small holes as a couple of colanders; but give me your hand—that is, if you can tell where I am, by my voice.”

“All right,” I said; and, for a few minutes, we played a game of blind-man’s-buff, and at length only succeeded in meeting, by both tumbling over the same tree-stump. Then we took hold of each other’s hand, and sat awaiting the first streak of daylight.

“Shouldn’t I like to come across Master Si-Ling? I tell you what, Claud, I could even now forgive the fellow if he would only bring us our clothes; for what a couple of fools we shall look to the first person we meet, and how Prabu and the men will laugh at us, for being so easily gulled!”

“Well, I don’t know: they ought not to laugh at us, for we shall at least look the picture of innocence.”

“Ah! I have it, old fellow—I tell you what we will do.”

“What?”

“We’ll just rig ourselves out with palm-leaves.”

“A very good notion, Martin,” said I; and as soon as it became light enough we gathered some; and, by dint of much perseverance and a little ingenuity—such as using a piece of sharp stone for a knife, the fibers of rattans for strings, and a thin piece of cane for a needle, or rather piercer—we managed to encase our bodies in palm-leaves. Then, each taking one leaf as a head-covering, we set out, barefooted, for the river, which, as the ground we stood upon was very high, we could see at a distance of little more than a quarter of a mile; and the hearty laughs we had at each other’s appearance almost made us forget, if not forgive, the Chinese rogue for the trick he had played us.

Still, our position was not by any means enviable: for we were obliged to keep along the river-banks, with the chances of a tiger suddenly springing from the jungle on one side, or a crocodile from the other, without arms for our defense, and without shoes to protect our feet and aid our running.

“Truly,” said Martin, “we should make a couple of nice morsels for the breakfast of any tiger or crocodile out for an early stroll; but I don’t care half so much about that, as the laugh they will have at us on board the prahu.”

“Well, let us make the best of it, Martin; for, at least, we shall have a palmy time of it before we reach the prahu.”

“Have done, Claud—don’t pun. Don’t you know it has been said, that a man who will make a pun will pick a pocket?”

“He would be a clever man who could pick ours now, Martin,” said I. “But see, yonder is the carcase of the crocodile.”

“This is lucky, for we can’t be a great distance from the mouth of the river. But, look you—yonder is a better sight,” he added, pointing to a bend of the river, around which a man was paddling a sampan at a rapid rate.

“Hurrah, old boy!” I cried; for it was Kati, on his return from the town.

“I don’t cry hurrah, Claud, for I feel as if I should like to shrink into my shoes.”

“The Chinese has prevented any such feat, Martin.”

“Oh, bother, Claud! but how shall we make him see us, for he is looking neither to the right nor to the left?”

“Oh, that will be easy enough; but, first, let us put our heads through the leaves, or he will never recognize us,” said I.

Then we put our heads through so that the leaves fell over our shoulders like capes, but of a very odd fashion; and, as Kati pulled nearer, shouted to him. At the sound of our voices he looked around, but (as he afterwards related) taking us for a couple of those forest-demons, which, from his childhood, he had been taught to believe in, he gave a kind of shriek of surprise, and plied his oars the faster.

“Bother! what a fool he is to take us for wild beasts!”

“Wild beasts don’t walk on their hind legs, Martin. No—he takes us for forest-demons,” said I, now really fearing that he would leave us where we were.

“I will jump into the river, and, if it pleases the crocodiles, will swim to him,” cried Martin.

“No, no—for heaven’s sake, no!” I cried, seizing his arm—“you shall not; the river swarms with man-eaters. At least, let us try stones first;” and at once I hurled at the boatman a stone, which hit him on the back.

Now, no greater insult could have been offered to one of his race: thus, forgetting his fear of demons, he turned the prow of his boat, and, leaping ashore, creese in hand, prepared to run “a muck”; but, as he came near, we tore the leaves from our shoulders. He stopped suddenly, as if shot, or petrified.

“What demons,” he cried, “have taken the form of the young sahibs?”

“I told you he would take us for spirits, Martin,” said I.

“No, no,” replied my brother, approaching him, as he shrunk backwards in no dissembled terror; “we are no demons, but real, right-down flesh and blood, though packed in palm-leaves.”

“The Great Spirit protect His slave, but it is the sahibs!” he exclaimed, affectionately, not embracing, but smelling us both.

“Yes, Kati, we are the sahibs, there is no doubt about it,” said Martin; “and if you will not laugh at us for a couple of simpletons, I will tell you how it happens that we are here, like masquerading ourang-outangs”; and then he related our adventure with the professed story-teller, to which Kati, having listened attentively, replied:

“That Chinese is a dog, and the son of a dog! The sahibs could not help themselves, for he had mixed with the mangosteen the Kachubong.”[C]

“Come, Claud, that’s refreshing; for, of course, it was no more our fault than if we had been stabbed in the dark, or shot at by some sneak from behind a tree,” said Martin.

“The sahib is right, but if catchee long-tailed dog, he rob no man more,” replied Kati, savagely, fingering the handle of his creese; and then he completely restored us, or at least my brother, to good humor, by telling us that it was a trick commonly practiced upon the natives by the Chinese, illustrating it by an adventure that one of his shipmates had met with about a year before.

This man, being upon a journey up one of the rivers, was accosted by a Chinese from the bank, who requested a passage, for which he tendered a fare and a share of his food. The sailor received him, and ate heartily of the viands, which, being mixed with the datura, induced stupor and heavy sleep; and when he awoke, he found himself lying stark naked in a forest, fifteen miles distant from the place where he had taken in the Chinese, robbed of his canoe and all his property.

As I have said, the tide was with us; we were not, therefore, long in reaching the prahu, on board of which we were most heartily welcomed by Prabu, who embraced us after the European fashion. Indeed, so disconsolate had he been at our absence, and so delighted was he at seeing us safe again on board, that he had but few words to say of the rogue of a Chinese, or our loss of game and arms. As for our wild shipmates, they crowded around to listen to our story, and having heard it, flourished their creeses as savagely as if the Chinese had been before them; all of which so pleased my brother, that I can only describe it, at the risk of being thought vulgar, in his own words:

“These fellows, Claud, are ‘jolly bricks.’ Hang me, if one of them has laughed at us! But, by Jingo, the fellows at our school would have chaffed us not a little, if we, after nutting in the woods, had shown ourselves in such a precious costume.”

“Ay, Martin; but then our schoolfellows were civilized, and these men are only savages!”

“Why, Claud, do you mean to say that the more civilized we are, the more prone are we to laugh at the misfortunes of our fellows?”

“Yes; some of the best jokes are made out of the real or fancied (it matters not which to the butt) miseries of others, while savages are always serious, either to friends or to enemies.”

“Claud, old fellow, you are a cynic.”

“That is better than being a wit, or witling, at the expense of the feelings of others.”

“Well, I don’t know, perhaps you are right—I am not so wise an old fellow as you; but see, Prabu is beckoning us to his cabin.”

Our captain had a meal ready, the best he could have made up, consisting of hot rice, dried fish, a fish-sauce, and slices of pork, to say nothing of a cup of hot rice-spirit, of which he insisted we should partake before saying another word—which good things made Martin bold enough to say:

“Now, Prabu, I don’t like half-confidence, and you know we shall be in a pretty mess if the Dutch happen to catch us; besides, we are all rowing in one boat, or prahu, which is the same thing. Do, therefore, like a good old Prabu as you are, tell us upon what errand you sent Kati up to that town with the very hard name?”

“Sahib,” replied Prabu, in measured tones, “I may tell you, Kati went to tell the Chief of Pugar our adventure with the Dutch ships, that he might be on his guard, knowing that the suspicions of the Government had become excited.”

“New conspiracies!—I thought so,” said Martin, laughing.

“Not so, sahib, but a part of the old one,” replied Prabu, astutely.

“But, anyhow, you will manage to get us hanged, drawn, and quartered, or something equally pleasant, if we don’t look out.”

“Will the sahib go ashore at Pugar? From thence it will not be difficult to get back to Batavia, to Mynheer’s house, if he wills it; nay, he shall have two of the best of the prahu’s men as guides,” replied Prabu, but this time with a serio-comic manner, that showed he understood my brother to be bantering him; but Martin, now in turn most serious, answered:

“Do you mean that Pugar is the end of your voyage?”

“No, it is not half-way.”

“Then look you, Prabu, as I won’t do anything by halves, I will just go the whole length with you, for ‘one may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.’”

“A bad proverb, and one that encourages the weak in vice, Master Martin,” said I.

“Oh, bother, you old wiseacre! But, Prabu,” he added, addressing our companion, “just lend us a couple of guns, and we will soon replace the game lost by our simplicity and the rogue of a Chinese.”

“Sahib Martin,” he replied, “it is not possible; we have a good wind now, and shall lose it by staying here longer.”

So, after all our adventures in search of fresh food, we had to continue our voyage with but one pig: however, that was better than none.

Upon our reaching Pugar, the last province to the east of Java, we anchored at the mouth of the river, while Prabu, taking with him a couple of boats, and several chests and casks of arms, proceeded into the interior to have an interview with, and take fresh instructions from, the Pangeran, his master. During his absence, which lasted eight days, Martin and I amused ourselves by going ashore and killing small game; for Prabu had given us two muskets—he possessed neither rifles nor fowling-pieces. When he returned to the prahu, he appeared in excellent spirits, and admitted us into his confidence so far as to tell us that he was charged with a mission to the Rajah of Blilling, a large sovereignty in the island of Bali, to whom, upon certain conditions, he was to deliver arms, although what those conditions were he would not tell us.

We had a good, brisk wind nearly all along the coast, but as we entered the straits which cut off the island of Bali from Java, we fell in with a dead calm, which would have been monotonous indeed but for Prabu, who would for hours sit and interest us with many particulars about the island.

“What religion are the Balinese?” asked Martin, upon one of these occasions.

“Hindoo, of the sect of Siva.”

“Then, like the people of Western India, they are divided into castes.”

“Yes—four—the Priesthood, Soldiery, Merchants, and Servants, called Brahmana, Satriya, Wisiya, and Sudra.”

“What was the supposed origin of these castes, can you tell me?”

“Yes—the god Brahma produced the Brahmana from his mouth, which means wisdom; the Satriya from his chest, which imports strength; the Wisiya from his abdomen, which implies that it is his business to furnish subsistence to society; and the Sudra from his feet, which implies that he is destined to obedience and servitude.”

“Have they always been Hindoos?”

“No, sahib—the religion of Siva was introduced into Bali about four hundred years ago; before that the prevailing religion was Buddhism. A few years previous to the Mahomedan conversion of the Javanese, there arrived in Java a number of Brahmins, of the sect of Siva, who received protection from Browisoyo, the last Hindoo sovereign of Mojopahit, a kingdom of Java, whose sea-bed was washed by the Straits of Madura; but the latter kingdom being overthrown, the Brahmins fled to Bali, under their leader Wahu Bahu, and there disseminated their doctrines.”

“But, Prabu,” I interposed, “is it not curious that the Mahomedans—having, by their usual means, converted the whole of Java and the adjacent islands to the faith of your prophet—should have permitted the Balinese to continue the terrible worship of Siva?”

“‘What is written is written.’ The time for their conversion had not, perhaps, come; then the refugees were fierce and determined, and the shores of Bali are inaccessible to conquerors, for they have neither harbors nor even anchoring-ground.”

“Why do you call the religion of Siva terrible, Claud?” asked my brother.

“Because it is a superstition of horrors—one that enjoins everything that is terrible—blood and destruction. It is the reverse of Christianity, even as black is to white; ay, and of Buddhism, which, pagan as it is, yet teaches only that which is innocent and simple.”