"Stop! stop! Malkarski, do not commit this crime!"
"What is he doing?" said the Sergeant, pulling his pistol.
"He is going to blow the man up!" groaned Kalman.
The Sergeant levelled his pistol.
"Here, you man," he cried, "stir in your tracks and you are dead!"
Malkarski laughed scornfully at him and proceeded to strike his third match. Before the Sergeant could fire, old Portnoff sprang upon him with the cry, "Would you murder the man?"
Meantime, under the third match, the train was blazing, and slowly creeping toward the cabin. Shriek after shriek from the wretched victim seemed to pierce the ears of the listeners as with sharp stabs of pain.
"Rosenblatt," cried old Malkarski, putting up his hand, "you know me now?"
"No! no!" shrieked Rosenblatt. "Mercy! mercy! quick! quick! I know you not."
The old man drew himself up to a figure straight and tall. The years seemed to fall from him. He stepped nearer Rosenblatt and stood in the full light and in the attitude of a soldier at attention.