the least excited.
Heckewelder left them at the cabin and hurried away to consult
Captain Williamson. While Zeisberger, who was skilled in surgery,
attended to the wounded men, Jim barred the heavy door, shut the
rude, swinging windows, and made the cabin temporarily a refuge from
prowling savages.

Outside the clamor increased. Shrill yells rent the air, long,
rolling war-cries sounded above all the din. The measured stamp of
moccasined feet, the rush of Indians past the cabin, the dull thud
of hatchets struck hard into the trees--all attested to the
excitement of the savages, and the imminence of terrible danger.

In the front room of Mr. Wells' cabin Edwards lay on a bed, his face
turned to the wall, and his side exposed. There was a bloody hole in
his white skin. Zeisberger was probing for the bullet. He had no
instruments, save those of his own manufacture, and they were
darning needles with bent points, and a long knife-blade ground
thin.

"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.