He deliberately struck a match.  A slight puff of wind blew it out.  Once more he struck a match.  A cry broke forth from Kalman.

“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.

“Behold,” he cried, “Michael Kalmar!”

“Ah-h-h-h!” Rosenblatt’s voice was prolonged into a wail of despair as from a damned soul.

“My father!” cried Kalman from across the ravine.  “My father!  Don’t commit this crime!  For my sake, for Christ’s dear sake!”

He rushed across the ravine and up the other slope.  His father ran to meet him and grappled with him.  Upon the slope they struggled, Kalman fighting fiercely to free himself from those encircling arms, while like a fiery serpent the flame crept slowly toward the cabin.

With a heavy iron poker which he found in the cabin, Rosenblatt had battered off the sash and the frame of the window, enlarging the hole till he could get his head and one arm free; but there he stuck fast, watching the creeping flames, shrieking prayers, entreaties, curses, while down upon the slope swayed the two men in deadly struggle.

“Let me go!  Let me go, my father!” entreated Kalman, tearing at his father’s arms.  “How can I strike you!”

“Never, boy.  Rather would I die!” cried the old man, his arms wreathed about his son’s neck.

At length, with his hand raised high above his head, Kalman cried, “Now God pardon me this!” and striking his father a heavy blow, he flung him off and leaped free.  Before he could take a single step, another figure, that of a woman, glided from the trees, and with a cry as of a wild cat, threw herself upon him.  At the same instant there was a dull, thick roar; they were hurled stunned to the ground, and in the silence that followed, through the trees came hurtling a rain of broken rock and splintered timbers.