rise, he plainly made out that it was a
man, wading in the opposite direction, and evidently for a similar
purpose to his own.

It was, in fact, one of the Malays from the nearest sampan, who, while a
companion had undertaken to stalk the Englishman from the shore, as he
sat there asleep, had set off from the boat, meaning to get there at the
same time as his friend, but had miscalculated the period it would take.

He was now coming along cautiously, and had nearly reached Gray in the
darkness before he became aware of his presence.

As soon, though, as he made out that it was the Englishman who was
before him, he made a lunge forward, striking at Gray with his kris; but
the latter avoided the blow and prepared to close with his antagonist,
feeling as he took a step back, that the result would probably be death
for both, for they must be swept away by the swift stream.

Just then the Malay seemed to leap at him, but at the same moment he
uttered a smothered cry, which was silenced directly by the rushing
water, and Gray found that he was alone.

He needed no telling that one of the loathsome reptiles of the river had
been close at hand, and had seized his enemy; his wonder was that he
himself had not been the victim.

It was enough to paralyse the bravest heart, and for a few minutes Gray
clung to the roots of the tree beside him, feeling sick and giddy, and
as if some reptile was only waiting for his next movement to drag him
down.

It was fortunate for him that he did not stir, for the Malay's cry had
alarmed his companions, who could be heard talking quickly and in
whispers, close at hand.

At first it seemed to Gray that they were coming to the help of their
unfortunate companion, but this did not prove to be the case. They knew
what had happened, from old experience, and accepted the accident as one
of the misfortunes to which they were heirs, troubling themselves no
more about the matter.

Recovering himself somewhat, but feeling all the time that any moment he
might be seized, Gray crept once more slowly along, till he stood with
the water nearly to his shoulders, beneath the overhanging bank, by
Dullah's hut, and between it and the two sampans.

The place was admirably suited for concealment, for now little more than
his head was above water, and that he had contrived should lie behind a
screen of drooping verdure, which made his chilly hiding-place so dark
that he could not have been seen twelve in