The vista of the two rivers, joining their waters to form a mightier stream visible below and appearing like a ruffled sea, was majestic. Also, it was terrific in its very grandeur. The dark water of the Rio Negro did not at once mingle with or become absorbed by the muddy flood of the Solimoes, but the two ran side by side a distance of many miles, the sharp distinguishing line clearly visible, before merging their identities. The scene was a wild and dismal one and David was impressed with his own littleness and that of those about him. The contrast had not seemed so great from the high deck of the steamer when he came up the river; but in the comparatively frail shell of the batalao it was different. The craft seemed so small, so helpless on the broad, billowy expanse of hurrying water. A rowboat in mid-ocean would not seem more out of place. The sailors, apparently, were well versed in the ways of navigating the great rivers. They handled the sails and the rudder in a skilful manner and were soon tacking up-stream with a cross wind. Progress was now more slow, and when, an hour later, the wind failed so that the sails hung limply in the rigging, they were furled and made fast. The water near the bank was shallow--not over four feet deep and generally a good deal less. Long poles were brought out; they had cross-pieces padded with cloth on one end and looked like tall crutches. Each man took one and then the crew was divided into two sections, one of which went to each outrigger board along the sides. The sharp ends of the poles were thrust to the sandy bottom while the men braced their shoulders against the padded ends and then pushed, running back along the boards in an even line. This propelled the boat along fairly rapidly, but it was hard work. The sailors pushed the heavy craft forward with the poles throughout the remainder of the day, stopping only at noon for their ration of farinha and an hour’s rest.