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.
Young spoke again in a voice which had lost its passion, and was
singularly sweet in its richness.
"Beloved Christians, if it is God's will that we must die to prove
our faith, then as we have taught you how to live, so we can show
you how to die---"
"Spang!"
Again a whistling sound came with the bellow of an overcharged
rifle; again the sickening thud of a bullet striking flesh.
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