At a little distance from the cabin they could distinguish the figure of a man outlined in the lurid light of the leaping flames.

He was speaking to Rosenblatt, whose head could be seen thrust far out of the window.
"Who is that man ?" cried the Sergeant.
"Mother of God!" said old Portnoff in a low voice.
"It is Malkarski.

Listen." "Rosenblatt," cried the old man in the Russian tongue, "I have something to say to you.

Those bags of gunpowder, that dynamite with which you were to destroy two innocent men, are now piled under your cabin, and this train at my feet will fire them." With a shriek Rosenblatt disappeared, and they could hear him battering at the door.

Old Malkarski laughed a wild, unearthly laugh.
"Rosenblatt," he cried again, "the door is securely fastened! Three stout locks will hold it closed." The wretched man thrust his head far out of the window, shrieking, "Help! Help! Murder! Help!" "Listen, you dog!" cried Malkarski, his voice ringing down through the ravine, "your doom has come at last.