litude and desolation. When, in the early morning or toward
nightfall, the conical volcanoes cast their lengthening shadows upon
this expanse of sand, it reminds one of the surface of the moon as seen
through a telescope. But at midday, beneath the pitiless rays of the
equatorial sun, it resembles an enormous pool of molten brass, the
illusion being heightened by the heat-waves which flicker and dance
above it. From the center of the Sand Sea rises the extinct crater of
Batok, a sugar-loaf cone whose symmetrical slopes are so corrugated by
hardened rivulets of lava that they look for all the world like folds
of gray-brown cloth. Beyond Batok we could catch a glimpse of Bromo
itself, belching skyward great clouds of billowing smoke and steam,
while from its crater came a rumble as of distant thunder. And far in
the distance, its purple bulk faintly discernible against the turquoise
sky, rose Smeroe, the greatest volcano of them all.

[Illustration: The volcano of Bromo, Eastern Java, in eruption]

The descent from the Moengal Pass to the Sand Sea is so steep that it
is necessary to make it on foot, even the nimble-footed ponies having
all they can do to scramble down the precipitous and slippery trail. It
is well to cross the Sand Sea as soon after daybreak as possible, for
by mid-morning the heat is like a blast from an open furnace-door. It
is a four mile ride across the Sand Sea to the lower slopes of Bromo,
but the sand is firm and hard and we let the ponies break into a
gallop--an exhilarating change from the tedious crawl necessary in the
mountains. Then came a stiff climb of a mile or more over fantastically
shaped hills of lava, the final ascent to the brink of the crater being
accomplished by a flight of two hundred and fifty stone steps. The
crater of Bromo is shaped like a huge funnel, seven hundred feet deep
and nearly half a mile across. From it belch unceasingly dark gray
clouds of smoke and sulphurous fumes, while now and then large rocks
are spewed high in the air only to fall back again, rolling down the
inside slope of the crater with a thunderous rumble, as though the god
whom the Tenggerese believe dwells on the mountain was playing at
ten-pins. Deep down at the bottom of the crater jets of greenish-yellow
sulphur flicker in a cauldron of molten lava, from which a red flame
now and then leaps upward, like an out-thrust serpent's tongue. No
wonder that the ignorant mountaineers look on Bromo with fear