into the corner. The knife fell, buried not in the heart of Rosenblatt,
but in the Polak's neck.

There was no time to strike again. There was a loud battering,
then a crash as the door was kicked open.

"Hello! What is all this row here?"

It was Sergeant Cameron, pushing his big body through the crowd as
a man bursts through a thicket. An awed silence had fallen upon
all, arrested, sobered by that weird cry. Some of them knew that
cry of old. They had heard it in the Old Land in circumstances of
heart-chilling terror, but never in this land till this moment.

"What is all this?" cried the Sergeant again. His glance swept the
room and rested upon the huddled heap of men in the furthest corner.
He seized the topmost and hauled him roughly from the heap.

"Hello! What's this? Why, God bless my soul! The man is dying!"

From a wound in the neck the blood was still spouting. Quickly the
Sergeant was on his knees beside the wounded man, his thumb pressed
hard upon the gaping wound. But still the blood continued to bubble
up and squirt from under his thumb. All around, the earthen floor
was muddy with blood.

"Run, some of you," commanded the Sergeant, "and hurry up that
Dr. Wright, Main Street, two corners down!"

Jacob Wassyl, who had come in from the room above, understood,