THE scene of our story lies in Africa, the dark land of slavery, ignorance, and cruelty. A broad deep river flows down towards the clear blue sea.
Along by the side of the river there came a large wagon drawn by a long team of oxen. The wagon stopped close to the river, and a young Englishman left it and came down towards the water. He is going to wash in the cool water of the river, for it is hot work traveling in Africa.
At this moment wild yells and shouts are heard from the woods on the other side of the river. Out of the woods dashed a poor, black slave, and down through the high tangled rushes he tears his way towards the river. Into the river he dashed and swam for his life, without a thought of the terrible crocodile which may be very near. A band of fierce, cruel, black warriors rushed out of the woods, led by a tall, terrible looking chief.
As the poor slave tired out and quite out of breath—reached the bank near the young white man, his cruel enemies threw themselves into the river on the other side. A shower of darts fell around the wretched slave, one of which struck him and was buried deep in his leg. He falls—but with one bound the brave Englishman was by his side. Calmly he stands and waits while the cruel hunters swim the river, and dash up the bank towards him.
What has the poor slave done that he is so hunted? Nothing! but the chief’s little son has died, and he accuses this slave of having bewitched him, and so caused him to die. Terrible was the chief’s cruel rage. But the slave is as innocent as the father himself, and it is to escape a dreadful, and cruel death he flies before the fierce warriors.
And now the savage chief stands face to face with the white man, who has often traded with him. Never before has he seen him in such a terrible rage, but he is not afraid of the chief, but only wants to save the poor slave.
Long the white man pleads with the angry chief, and the chief respects him much for his honest, truthful dealings, as well as for the sake of his being an Englishman. In the wagon is all the young trader’s fortune—all he has collected in Africa to carry home to England. He offers it all to the chief for the poor wounded slave, that he may save his life. A great and loving heart has the white-man, but no, his heart sinks as the fierce savage chief refuses it all. He will have nothing but blood—the poor wretch shall die.
The chief waved his hand, and instantly another dart was aimed at the poor slave—but another receives it. The white man stepped between, and the white man’s blood flows instead of the black man’s.
In great alarm, the chief saw what he had done, for he feared the power of England, and was terribly frightened at having hurt an Englishman.
Very gladly he listened as the white man asked for the life of the poor slave in exchange for the blood the black chief had shed.
Yes, the loving, generous white man has bought the slave with blood; and the chief, glad to escape so easily, again swam the river with his black followers and disappeared into the woods, and the white man was left with his ransomed slave.
Now the darts must be drawn and the wounds bound up, then the white man with the black man by his side, continues his journey in the wagon, and the driver walked by the side of the oxen. Soon they reached a mission station where they rested for the night and remained till their wounds were healed.
O how grateful the poor negro was to his kind Savior. He well understood that his life had been saved by the blood of the loving white man. The white man told him that he was free—free as the air. What did the ransomed slave thing of this? He would only be free to serve his Savior; free to be the faithful slave of the one whose blood was shed to save, who offered all to ransom him—this is the only freedom he will have.
Now, little friends, for another story, not now about African deserts and African slaves.
I, too, was once a slave, born a slave, and a dear Friend saved me from my cruel enemies. He died to save me; died a terrible death, far worse than you can imagine. O, what love to die for me!
The loving Englishman shed his blood, received the dart for the black slave, but my Savior went into death to free me.
“Ah,” you say, “I know who you mean. It was the Lord Jesus who died for you.”
I wonder if you can say, “He died to save me, too. I was a slave, too, and He loved me, and died to set me free”?
Yes, He died to set us free, free from the power of the cruel Satan; and free, too, from sin. Are we as grateful to our loving Savior as the poor black man was to the white man? Can we say, like the poor black man, “Yes, free to be the faithful slave of the One who shed His precious blood to save me.”
ML-06/20/1920