The whole place was a smithy. There the spiritual weapons were forged for service in the foreign field. "Up, up," Spangenberg would say to the young men at sunrise, "we have no time for dawdling. Why sleep ye still? Arise, young lions!" And now the Count had a strange adventure, which spurred him to another step forward. As there were certain sarcastic people in Germany who said that Zinzendorf, though willing enough to send out others to die of fever in foreign climes, was content to bask in comfort at home, he determined now to give the charge the lie. He had travelled already on many a Gospel journey. He had preached to crowds in Berlin; he had preached in the Cathedral at Reval, in Livonia, and had made arrangements for the publication of an Esthonian Bible; and now he thought he must go to St. Thomas, where Friedrich Martin, the apostle to the negroes, had built up the strongest congregation in the Mission Field. He consulted the Lot; the Lot said "Yes," and off he set on his journey. The ship flew as though on eagle's wings. As they neared the island, the Count turned to his companion, and said: "What if we find no one there? What if the missionaries are all dead?" "Then we are there," replied Weber. "Gens aeterna, these Moravians," exclaimed the Count. He landed on the island {Jan. 29th, 1739.}. "Where are the Brethren?" said he to a negro. "They are all in prison," was the startling answer. "How long?" asked the Count. "Over three months." "What are the negroes doing in the meantime?" "They are making good progress, and a great revival is going on. The very imprisonment of the teachers is a sermon."