He drew a match, struck it on the sole of his boot, lighted his pipe and threw the blazing remnant toward the back of the cave.
"Ah, my God!" cried Rosenblatt, his voice rising almost to a shriek. Both men looked curiously at him. "Ah," he said, with his hand over his heart, "I have pain here. But I will get the paper."
His face was livid, and the sweat was running down his beard. As he spoke he ran out and disappeared, leaving the two men poring over the papers together. Beside the burning heap of brushwood he stood a moment, torn in an agony of uncertainty and fear.
"Oh!" he said, wringing his hands, "I dare not do it! I dare not do it!"
He rushed past the blazing heap, paused. "Fool!" he said, "what is there to fear?"
He crept back to the pile of burning brush, seized a blazing ember, ran with it to the train he had prepared of rags soaked in kerosene, leading toward the mouth of the cross tunnel, dropped the blazing stick upon it, and fled. Looking back, he saw that in his haste he had dashed out the flame and that besides the saturated rags the stick lay smoking. With a curse he ran once more to the blazing brush heap, selected a blazing ember, carried it carefully to the train, and set the saturated rags on fire, waiting until they were fully alight. Then like a man pursued by demons, he fled down the ravine, splashed through the Creek and up the other side, not pausing to look behind until he had shut the door of his cabin.
As he closed the door, a dark figure appeared, slipped up to the door, there was a click, a second, and a third, and the door stood securely fastened with three stout padlocks. In another moment Rosenblatt's livid face appeared at the little square window which overlooked the ravine.
At the same instant, upon the opposite side of the ravine, appeared Brown, riding down the slope like a madman, and shouting at the top of his voice, "French! French! Kalman! For God's sake, come here!"
Out of the cave rushed the two men. As they appeared Brown stood waving his hands wildly. "Come here! Come, for God's sake!
Come!" His eyes fell upon the blazing train. "Run! run!" he shouted, "for your lives! Run!"
He dashed toward the blazing rags and trampled them under his feet.
But the fire had reached the powder. There was a quick hissing sound of a burning fuse, and then a great puff. Brown threw himself on his face and waited, but there was nothing more. His two friends rushed to him and lifted him up.
"What, in Heaven's name, is it, Brown?" cried French.
"Come away!" gasped Brown, stumbling down the ravine and dragging them with him.
Meantime, the whole hillside was in flames. In the clear light of the blazing trees the Sergeant was seen riding his splendid horse at a hard gallop. Soon after his appearing came Portnoff.
"What does all this mean?" said French, looking around from one to the other with a dazed face.
Before they could answer, a voice clear and sonorous drew their eyes across the ravine towards Rosenblatt's cabin. 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. All your crimes, your treacheries, your bloody cruelties are now to be visited upon you.
Ha! scream! pray! but no power in earth can save you. Aha! for this joy I have waited long! See, I now light this train. In one moment you will he in hell."
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.
