n the street, to the
intense delight of the Japanese-looking people, a man comes to the
rescue with a stout pony. The boy mounts one battered steed, the other
is left behind in a hospitable stable, and we trot briskly on through
lovely scenery of forest and mountain to Kanas, at the head of the
beautiful lake of Tondano, hitherto seen in glimpses at an immense
depth between encircling peaks. Wearied almost to stupefaction by
eleven hours of a combat, after which victory seems scarcely less
ghastly than defeat, we would gladly remain for the night at the little
Rest House of Kanas, but prudence compels us to push on to Tondano, at
the other end of the lake, while a capable pony remains at disposal.
The lake road is a vista of entrancing loveliness, overhung by arching
bamboos and great sago-palms, the vanguard of the forest which clothes
the lower spurs of the purple mountain ranges, shutting off the long
blue lake from the outside world. A rudely-built _bloto_, merely the
hollowed trunk of a tree, crosses the water, with a torch flickering at
the prow, for the sun has set, and the crimson afterglow begins to fade
from the serrated crests of the opposite heights. The ripple of the
water in the reeds at the edge of the road, and the sigh of the evening
breeze, fluttering the leaves and creaking the yellow canes of the
great bamboos, alone stir the silence, which comes as a welcome relief
after the toil and excitement of the day; but alas! we have all
forgotten the perils of the road at nightfall, and in the sudden
darkness, deepened by the shadowy trees, a false step might precipitate
cart and passengers into the deep water. Any advance becomes dangerous
on the winding way, which follows every curve of the irregular shore,
so a halt is called, while the boy rides on towards some twinkling
lights denoting a lakeside _campong_. After a long wait, he returns in
triumph with three matches and a piece of flaming tow in a bottle. By
observing due precaution, we can now follow his guidance, while he
holds out the flaring light with extended arm. As we turn round the
foot of the lake into a raised causeway above fields of ripening rice,
the full moon comes up behind the sombre hills, and transfigures the
night with a sparkling flood of silver glory. We reach the white Dutch
town of Tondano as the clock strikes ten, but everyone is in bed at
this dissipated hour, and difficulty is experienced even in getting
admission to the little