“There, I have it,” said Zeisberger.  “Hold still, Dave.  There!” As Edwards moaned Zeisberger drew forth the bloody bullet.  “Jim, wash and dress this wound.  It isn’t bad.  Dave will be all right in a couple of days.  Now I’ll look at George.”

Zeisberger hurried into the other room.  Young lay with quiet face and closed eyes, breathing faintly.  Zeisberger opened the wounded man’s shirt and exposed the wound, which was on the right side, rather high up.  Nell, who had followed Zeisberger that she might be of some assistance if needed, saw him look at the wound and then turn a pale face away for a second.  That hurried, shuddering movement of the sober, practical missionary was most significant.  Then he bent over Young and inserted on of the probes into the wound.  He pushed the steel an inch, two, three, four inches into Young’s breast, but the latter neither moved nor moaned.  Zeisberger shook his head, and finally removed the instrument.  He raised the sufferer’s shoulder to find the bed saturated with blood.  The bullet wound extended completely through the missionary’s body, and was bleeding from the back.  Zeisberger folded strips of linsey cloth into small pads and bound them tightly over both apertures of the wound.

“How is he?” asked Jim, when the amateur surgeon returned to the other room, and proceeded to wash the blood from his hands.

Zeisberger shook his head gloomily.

“How is George?” whispered Edwards, who had heard Jim’s question.

“Shot through the right lung.  Human skill can not aid him!  Only God can save.”

“Didn’t I hear a third shot?” whispered Dave, gazing round with sad, questioning eyes.  “Heckewelder?”

“Is safe.  He has gone to see Williamson.  You did hear a third shot.  Half King fell dead with a bullet over his left eye.  He had just folded his arms in a grand pose after his death decree to the Christians.”

“A judgment of God!”

“It does seem so, but it came in the form of leaden death from Wetzel’s unerring rifle.  Do you hear all that yelling?  Half King’s death has set the Indians wild.”

There was a gentle knock at the door, and then the word, “Open,” in Heckewelder’s voice.

Jim unbarred the door.  Heckewelder came in carrying over his shoulder what apparently was a sack of meal.  He was accompanied by young Christy.  Heckewelder put the bag down, opened it, and lifted out a little Indian boy.  The child gazed round with fearful eyes.

“Save Benny!  Save Benny!” he cried, running to Nell, and she clasped him closely in her arms.

Heckewelder’s face was like marble as he asked concerning Edwards’ condition.

“I’m not badly off,” said the missionary with a smile.

“How’s George?” whispered Heckewelder.

No one answered him.  Zeisberger raised his hands.  All followed Heckewelder into the other room, where Young lay in the same position as when first brought in.  Heckewelder stood gazing down into the wan face with its terribly significant smile.