“If I wanted to bewitch you to death I should have brought guns and soldiers, but you see I have neither. I want to speak to you about the great and good God Who sent His Son into the world to tell you of His love, and to save you,” was his quiet reply.
“You are a cunning, crafty witch. We want neither you, nor your goodness, nor your talk about God, therefore go away,” they cried.
“It is nearly dark, and the next town is a long, long way, and my people and I are very tired. Let me sleep here outside your town!” he pleaded.
“No, not here,” they said. “It is too close to us; go and sleep by the stream in the forest.”
“It is cold and damp there, and plenty of fever and mosquitoes are in that place. Let us sleep here, we shall not harm you!” he smilingly said.
“No, not here. Down there is good enough for a witch. Keep the fevers and mosquitoes away with your magic,” they sneeringly retorted.
Sadly and wearily the white man retraced his steps, and as he went down the hill he called his carriers and boys, and that night they put up some waterproof sheets to serve as a tent to protect them from the heavy dews and dripping trees.
Well, it might have been worse, and through his God-given calmness the white man had come out of a very difficult and dangerous position with only a few rents in his clothes and a few bruises on his body. We heard many things about the white man next morning when his boys came up to the town to buy some food from the people.
All through that night the natives in the town danced around their fetishes to keep them alert in protecting them from the white man’s devilry: drums were beaten and gongs sounded to frighten the evil spirits away; and guns were occasionally fired to warn off witches, and the lonely white man down in his camp, as he heard the various sounds, prayed: “Father, forgive them, they know not what they do,” and especially did he pray for the lad who struck at his outstretched hand.