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.