“I came to give you warning that America will not allow you to persecute and kill a helpless old man and a defenseless woman! To keep your hands off helpless——” Peter checked himself in sheer wonderment at his own words—he who had come to kill the helpless old father of Katerin, suddenly found himself defending the very man he had waited twenty years to slay! “America will not allow you to persecute and kill,” he repeated weakly, as if it were an idea which he had just discovered! And he had! For the first time in his life he had been able to express the Americanism which he had acquired in twenty years. It was something that had overgrown his spirit and had smothered all unknowingly to him the smoldering fires within him which impelled him finally to seek the blood vengeance of the Slav! “Take the Kirsakoffs away!” ordered Zorogoff, turning to Shimilin in the instant of what seemed to him Peter’s indecision. “No Russian, even in an American uniform, can oppose my will here, or——” A small object came hurtling through the air past Peter, and struck the Ataman in the face. It was a heavy pocket-knife, with the blades closed, and its end, capped with curved grooves, left three short gashes parallel in the cheek of Zorogoff, before it ricocheted against the wall and clattered to the floor. Michael sprang forward closely after the missile which he had hurled at the Ataman, and thrust forward his fists, past Peter. “God’s curse upon you!” screamed Michael, his voice rising to a shrill shriek. The Ataman stepped back, and put his hands to his face, and then looked at the tips of his fingers covered with blood. He regarded them thoughtfully for the fraction of a second, a look of surprise in his eyes. Shimilin spoke in restraint to his soldiers, for they had started forward into the room, their bayonets coming up aslant. Michael pushed forward and thrust his fists into the Ataman’s face, the body of the old general coming between Peter and Zorogoff, so that Peter’s view of Zorogoff was temporarily cut off. And in that time Zorogoff drew a pistol, and fired, the crash of its report booming out above the startled cries of Katerin and Slipitsky and the high-pitched shrilling of Michael at his enemy. Zorogoff’s bullet almost lifted Michael from his feet, being fired from the hip and upward into Michael’s breast. The old general swung half round and then staggered backward and fell with startling impact across the low writing table. Peter turned to look after Michael, just as Katerin came plunging toward the Ataman, who stood partly hidden in a cloud of gray smoke. Peter caught the flash of the naked blade—the blade of the small dagger which Michael had handed to Peter and which had been taken from Peter’s hand by Katerin.