ongregation of believers and Yellow Medicine came together to
commemorate their Lord's death. The house was well-filled and the
missionaries have ever remembered that Sabbath as one of precious
interest, for it was the last time they ever assembled in that
beautiful little chapel. A great trial of their faith and patience was
before them and they knew it not. But the loving Saviour knew that both
the missionaries and the native Christians required just such a rest
with Him before the terrible trials came upon them.

As the sun sank that day into the bosom of the prairies, a fearful
storm of fire and blood burst upon the defenseless settlers and
missionaries. Like the dread cyclone, it came, unheralded, and like
that much-to-be-dreaded monster of the prairies, it left desolation and
death in its pathway. The Sioux arose against the whites and in their
savage wrath swept the prairies of Western Minnesota as with a besom of
destruction. One thousand settlers perished and hundreds of happy homes
were made desolate. The churches, school-houses and homes of the
missionaries were laid in ashes. However, all the missionaries and
their households escaped safely out of this fiery furnace of barbaric
fury to St. Paul and Minneapolis. All else seemed lost beyond the
possibility of recovery.

In dismay, the missionaries fled from the wreck of their churches and
homes. There were forty persons in that band of fugitives, missionaries
and their friends, who spent a week of horrors--never-to-be-forgotten--in
their passage over the prairies to St. Paul and Minneapolis. By day
they were horrified by the marks of bloody cruelties along their
pathway--dead and mangled bodies, wrecked and abandoned homes. At
night, they were terrified by the flames of burning homes and fears of
the tomahawks and the scalping knives of their cruel foes. The nights
were full of fear and dread. Every voice was hushed except to give
necessary orders; every eye swept the hills and valleys around; every
ear was intensely strained to catch the faintest noise, in momentary
expectation of the unearthly war-whoop and of seeing dusky forms with
gleaming tomahawks uplifted. In the moonlight mirage of the prairies,
every taller clump of grass, every blacker hillock grew into a blood
thirsty Indian, just ready to leap upon them. But, by faith, they were
able to sing in holy confidence:

"God is our refuge and our strength;
In straits a present aid;
There