"Come along with me," replied the Sergeant, and he squared his big
shoulders and set off down the street with the quick, light stride
that suggested the springing step of his Highland ancestors on the
heather hills of Scotland.

Just as they arrived at the house of feasting, a cry, wild, weird
and horrible, pierced through the uproar. The Interpreter stopped
as if struck with a bullet.

"My God!" he cried in an undertone, clutching the Sergeant by the
arm, "My God! Dat terrible!"

"What is it? What is the matter with you, Murchuk?"

"You know not dat cry? No?" He was all trembling. "Dat cry I
hear long ago in Russland. Russian man mak dat cry when he kill.
Dat Nihilist cry."

"Go back and get Dr. Wright. He will be needed, sure.
You know where he lives, second corner down on Main Street.
Get a move on! Quick!"

Meantime, while respectable Winnipeg lay snugly asleep under
snow-covered roofs and smoking chimneys, while belated revellers
and travellers were making their way through white, silent streets
and under avenues of snow-laden trees to homes where reigned love
and peace and virtue, in the north end and in the foreign colony
the festivities in connection with Anka's wedding were drawing to
a close in sordid drunken dance and song and in sanguinary fighting.