“That time you were sick—do you remember? When the doctor said there was no hope on earth, when everyone felt that the end had come, when you lay for days white and still, hardly breathing, with the pallor of death upon your face—do you remember? And I nursed you—sat at your bedside through four days and four nights without a minute’s rest. And then, when the doctor said the crisis had passed and you would get well, I fainted away from sheer weakness—do you remember?” Perspiration in huge drops was trickling slowly down Bernstein’s forehead. His lips were dry. His teeth were tightly clenched. “And you thought I had done it all for friendship’s sake, and I listened to your outpouring of gratitude, taking it all for myself, without a word—without a word! Ah, my dear friend, it was hateful to deceive you; but how could I tell the truth? But now I have no shame in telling it. I did it for her. All for her. To save you for her. That was the only thought in my poor, whirling brain during those long, weary days and nights. I felt that if you died she would die. I knew the intensity of her nature, and I knew that if aught happened to the man she loved she would die of grief. And now to think you never cared for her, and that it was I whom she always loved!” Natzi looked at the bowed head before him with tender smile. Bernstein was trembling. “I am glad, though, that all happened as it did. Had I nursed you only for your own sake, much as I loved you, I might have weakened, my strength might not have held out. For a man can do that for his love which he cannot do for himself. And, perhaps, after all, it was an excellent lesson for me to learn to bear bitter disappointment.” The flames in Bernstein’s cup were burning low. With every breath of air they flickered and trembled. They would soon die out. “Look,” said Natzi, reaching into his pocket. “Look at this little piece that I carved during the hours that I sat at your bedside—to keep me awake. I have carried it over my heart ever since.” Bernstein looked up. His eyes were frightfully bloodshot. His face was ashen. In Natzi’s hand he beheld a tiny carving in wood, fashioned with exquisite skill and grace, of a woman’s head. The flame in Natzi’s cup caught a light gust of air that stirred for a moment, leaped brightly, as if on purpose to illumine the features of the carved image, then flickered and went out. Bernstein had recognised the likeness. Those features were burning in his brain.