Those in the immediate vicinity of the warning symbol, and nearest the informer, were unharmed, and, believing no injury had been done by the discharge of the musket, they set up a howl of derision, which was checked an instant later as a wailing cry came from the walk opposite.
"Chris Snyder's killed! Chris Snyder's killed!"
"Chris Gore's killed!" another cried. "Help! Stand back; you are trampling him to death!"
Turning as one man, the startled assemblage rushed frantically toward that quarter from which the ominous words had come, pressing down upon the little group that had gathered around something on the ground, until there was every danger these few would be trampled under foot.
During several moments no one outside the awe-stricken circle on the walk knew really what had occurred, and then it was whispered—not spoken—among the gathering:
A silence that was profound, intense—a silence which was at the same time a menace, ensued, and, involuntarily, every head was bared.
Amos, who had been standing beside the two Christophers, was one of the few who knew exactly what followed the discharge of the weapon.
Little Chris Snyder, the smallest and perhaps the youngest of the throng, had fallen with an ominous-looking wound in the vicinity of his lungs, and Chris Gore was leaning against the palings, big crimson drops falling from his shoulder to the frozen earth.
Amos, at once recognising the fact that Snyder was the most grievously wounded, raised the little German lad's head tenderly on his arm as he implored those nearest to keep the crowd back, and when the excited ones in the rear finally understood what was required, every order given by Amos, boy though he was, received implicit obedience.