Heckewelder approached at the same time that Simon Girty and his band of renegades appeared.  With the renegades were Pipe and Half King.  These two came slowly across the clearing, passed through the opening in the crowd, and stopped close to the platform.

Heckewelder went hurriedly up to his missionaries.  He seemed beside himself with excitement, and spoke with difficulty.

“Do not preach to-day.  I have been warned again,” he said, in a low voice.

“Do you forbid it?” inquired Edwards.

“No, no.  I have not that authority, but I implore it.  Wait, wait until the Indians are in a better mood.”

Edwards left the group, and, stepping upon the platform, faced the Christians.

At the same moment Half King stalked majestically from before his party.  He carried no weapon save a black, knotted war-club.  A surging forward of the crowd of savages behind him showed the intense interest which his action had aroused.  He walked forward until he stood half way between the platform and the converts.  He ran his evil glance slowly over the Christians, and then rested it upon Edwards.

“Half King’s orders are to be obeyed.  Let the paleface keep his mouth closed,” he cried in the Indian tongue.  The imperious command came as a thunderbolt from a clear sky.  The missionaries behind Edwards stood bewildered, awaiting the outcome.

But Edwards, without a moment’s hesitation, calmly lifted his hand and spoke.

“Beloved Christians, we meet to-day as we have met before, as we hope to meet in—–­”

“Spang!”

The whistling of a bullet over the heads of the Christians accompanied the loud report of a rifle.  All presently plainly heard the leaden missile strike.  Edwards wheeled, clutching his side, breathed hard, and then fell heavily without uttering a cry.  He had been shot by an Indian concealed in the thicket.

For a moment no one moved, nor spoke.  The missionaries were stricken with horror; the converts seemed turned to stone, and the hostile throng waited silently, as they had for hours.

“He’s shot!  He’s shot!  Oh, I feared this!” cried Heckewelder, running forward.  The missionaries followed him.  Edwards was lying on his back, with a bloody hand pressed to his side.

“Dave, Dave, how is it with you?” asked Heckewelder, in a voice low with fear.

“Not bad.  It’s too far out to be bad, but it knocked me over,” answered Edwards, weakly.  “Give me—­water.”

They carried him from the platform, and laid him on the grass under a tree.

Young pressed Edwards’ hand; he murmured something that sounded like a prayer, and then walked straight upon the platform, as he raised his face, which was sublime with a white light.

“Paleface!  Back!” roared Half King, as he waved his war-club.

“You Indian dog!  Be silent!”

Young’s clear voice rolled out on the quiet air so imperiously, so powerful in its wonderful scorn and passion, that the hostile savages were overcome by awe, and the Christians thrilled anew with reverential love.