SLADANG. 95 



plain. It was covered with a strong rank growth 

 of lalang grass that reached up to our waists. It 

 dripped with dew. On every blade hung beads so 

 full and so weighted that they could scarce hold to 

 their support. As we forced our way through the 

 long grass, the swathes bent themselves to the 

 pressure of our bodies, clung closely and heavily 

 to every curve and movement of the limbs, and, as 

 it were in an agony of self-abnegation, rubbed off 

 on us all the moisture that they carried. 



In a minute we were wet through, and I had to 

 transfer my cartridge-belt from my waist to my neck, 

 and to hold my rifle above my head. And in the 

 darkness of the night how cold the clammy wetness 

 was. Long dead, fallen trees lay across the path at 

 intervals, and over their trunks, covered sometimes 

 with loose treacherous bark that slipped under our 

 feet, we had to clamber. Smaller trees and unex- 

 pected branches formed every now and again painful 

 traps to the shins of one or another of us. After a 

 time we came to a little stream. This in its normal 

 state was not more than knee-deep, but a local rain- 

 storm at its source a few miles away had swollen it 

 into flood, and now in petty vehemence it swirled 

 almost breast-high. 



The wet lalang grass had thoroughly chilled us, 

 but this forest torrent was icy cold. As we lowered 

 ourselves carefully from the bank into its black 

 depths, toeing to find the bottom, it took our breath 

 away. Holding lamp, rifles, and cartridges high above 

 our heads, we had then to stem the rushing water, 

 while step by step we felt for foothold among the 



