At the foot of Mount Ophir
The little pleasant-faced Malay captain of his Highness’s three-hundred ton
yacht Pante called softly, close to my ear, “Tuan—Tuan Consul, Gunong
Ladang!” I sprang to my feet, rubbed my eyes, and gazed in the direction
indicated by the brown hand.
I saw not five miles off the low jungle-bound coast of the peninsula, and above it
a great bank of vaporous clouds, pierced by the molten rays of the early morning
sun. As I looked around inquiringly, the captain, bowing, said: “Tuan,” and I
raised my eyes. Again I saw the lofty mountain peak surmounting the cushion of
clouds, standing out bold and clear against the almost fierce azure of the
Malayan sky.
“Mount Ophir!” burst from my lips. The captain smiled and went forward to
listen to the linesman’s “two fathoms, sir, two and one half fathoms, sir, two
fathoms, sir”; for we were crossing the shallow bar that protects the mouth of the
great river Maur from the ocean.
The tide was running out like a mill-race. The Pante was backing from side to
side, and then pushing carefully ahead, trying to get into the deep water beyond,
before low tide.
Suddenly there was a soft, grating sound and the captain came to me and
touched his hat.
“We are on the bar, sir. Will you send a despatch by the steam-cutter to Prince
Suliman, asking for the launch? We cannot get off until the night tide.”
The Pante had so swung around that we could plainly see the big red istana, or
palace, of Prince Suliman close to the sandy shore, surrounded by a grove of
graceful palms. With the aid of our glasses the white and red blur farther up the