CHAPTER X 

 FIFTEEN HUNDRED MILES ON THE ORINOCO 



IT seemed as if the declining sun had set the quivering 

 world aflame; all day long the Delta, well remembered 

 but unbeloved by voyagers on the Master River, had 

 struggled on against the yellow flood toward her goal two 

 hundred and forty miles above the Parian Gulf. Not a 

 ripple stirred the placid water which glided ever onward, 

 and no breeze stirred the heavy, dark vegetation that lined 

 the river's bank. It had been one of those days which only 

 the traveller to tropical lands can adequately picture; when 

 all the earth silently droops beneath the unrelenting glare 

 of the lurid orb overhead, and eagerly awaits the coming 

 of night which alone can bring relief. 



As the last vestige of the sullen disk dipped into the 

 forest, and only a faint pink and violet glow lit up the banks 

 of vapors hanging low in the west, the nightly gales from 

 the ocean sprang up with unrestrained vigor; soon a choppy 

 sea was raging, and as each white-capped wave struck her 

 wooden sides with a muffled boom, the fragile, top-heavy 

 steamer shuddered and threatened to capsize. Morning, 

 however, found her still battling bravely with the some- 

 what subsided elements, and, not long after, the Delta was 

 slowly dragging herself alongside the high, sandy beach on 

 which stands Ciudad Bolivar. 



The first white man to ascend the Orinoco was Ordaz, 

 who in 1531-2 went as far as the mouth of the Meta; 

 and after him came the usual bands of treasure-seekers in 

 quest of El Dorado; but instead of wonderful golden cities 

 they found yawning graves in a hostile wilderness. 



In the middle of the eighteenth century missions, founded 

 by the Jesuit fathers, dotted the river-bank as far up as 



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