Then the thought of the phial in his hand recurred to his mind and he became calm. The flames died out, and Natzi slowly drained his cup. Bernstein watched him with bloodshot eyes. Looking up he met Natzi’s gaze bent upon him anxiously. “You are not well, Bernstein. Let us go home.” “No, no,” Bernstein said, quickly. “It is just nervousness. I have smoked too much.” He made a feeble attempt at a smile. “Come,” said he, draining his cup. “Let us have another. The last. The very last. And after that we will drink no more chai.” Two more cups were set before them. “Look,” said Bernstein, “is that lightning in the sky?” Natzi turned his head toward the open doorway. Swiftly, yet stealthily, Bernstein’s hand stretched forth until it touched the blue flames that danced on Natzi’s cup, hovered there a moment, and then was withdrawn just as Natzi turned around. His fingers had been scorched. “No, I see no lightning. The stars are shining.” “Let us drink,” said Bernstein. “The last drink.” “I am not a fire-eater,” said Natzi, smiling. “Let us wait at least until the rum burns out.” Bernstein lowered the flaming cup that, in his eagerness, he had raised toward his lips and looked at Natzi. Malice gleamed in his eyes. “Yes. Let it cool. Then we will drink a toast.” “With all my heart,” said Natzi. “It shall be a toast to her. A toast to the sweetest woman in the world.” There was a long pause. Once or twice Natzi glanced hesitatingly at his companion, who sat with bowed head, his eyes intent upon the flames that leaped so brightly from his cup. Then Natzi spoke, slowly at first, but gradually more rapidly, and more animatedly as the intensity of his emotion mastered him. “Do you know, dear friend,” he began, “there was a time when I thought she loved you? We were together so much, the three of us, and she had so many opportunities to know you—to know you as I knew you—to know your great, strong mind, your tender heart, your steadfastness, your generous nature, that could harbour no unworthy thought. You pose as a cynic, as a man who looks down upon the petty things that make up life for most of us, but I—I, who have lived with you, struggled with you, known so many of the trials and heart-breakings of everyday life with you—I know you better. True, you have no love for women, and I often wondered how you could be so blind to her sweetness, and to the charm that seemed to fill the room whenever we three were together. But I never took my eyes from her face, and when I saw with what breathless interest she listened whenever you spoke, whenever you told us of your plans for uplifting the down-trodden, of your innermost thoughts and hopes and feelings, I read in her eyes a fondness for you that filled me with despair.” Bernstein was breathing heavily. His lips quivered; his face twitched; the blood had mounted to his cheeks. His eyes were downcast, fastened upon the blue flames of the chai, dancing and leaping in fantastic shapes.