“I must go to him,” she declared.  She knew that the way was full of perils, and that she might be killed by warriors and wild beasts; but she knew too that, if she did not go and if the chief died, hundreds of lives might be sacrificed.

Chief Edem said, “There are warriors out in the woods and you will be killed.  You must not go.”

Ma Eme, a tall fat African widow of Ekenge village, who loved Mary Slessor, said, “No, you must not go.  The streams are deep; the rains are come.  You could never get there.”

But Mary Slessor said, “I must go.”

“Then I will send women with you to look after you, and men to protect you,” said Chief Edem.

Mary Slessor went back to her house to prepare to start on her long dangerous journey in the morning.  She could not sleep for wondering whether she was indeed right to risk her life and all her work on the off-chance of saving this distant sick chief.  She knelt down and asked God to guide her.  Then she felt in her heart that she must go.

In the morning at dawn a guard of Ekenge women came to her door.

“The men will join us outside the village,” they said.

The skies were grey.  The rain was falling as they started.  When the village lay behind them the rain began to pour in sheets.  It came down as only an African rain can, unceasing torrents of pitiless deluge.  Soon Mary Slessor’s soaked boots became impossible to walk in.  She took them off and threw them into the bush; then her stockings went, and she ploughed on in the mud in her bare feet.

They had walked for three hours when, as the weather began to clear, Mary Slessor came out into a market-place for neighbouring villages.  The hundreds of Africans who were bartering in the market-place turned and stared at the strange white woman who swiftly passed through their midst and disappeared into the bush beyond.

So she pressed on for hour after hour, her head throbbing with fever, her dauntless spirit driving her trembling, timid body onward till at last, when she had been walking almost ceaselessly for over eight hours, she tottered into the village of the sick chief.

The Healing Hand.

Mary Slessor, aching from head to foot with fever and overwhelming weariness, did not lie down even for a moment’s rest, but walked straight to the chief who lay senseless on his mat on the mud floor.  Having examined him she took from her little medicine chest a drug and gave a dose to the chief.  But she could see at once that more of this medicine was needed than she had with her.  She knew that, away on the other side of the river, some hours distant, another missionary was working.

“You must go across the river to Ikorofiong for more medicine.”

“No, no!” they said, “we dare not go.  They will slay any man who goes there.”

She was in despair.  Then someone said, “There is a man of that country living in his canoe on the river.  Perhaps he would go?”