The flames changed from blue to red. Bernstein’s brain whirled. He felt a wild impulse to throw himself upon his companion and seize him by the throat and strangle him, and cry aloud so that all could hear it: “You shall never have that happiness. She belongs to me. She is part of my life, part of myself. You cannot understand her. I alone of all men understand her. Every thought of my brain, every impulse of my being, every fibre of my body beats responsive to her. She was made for me. No other shall have her!”
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hand stretched forth until it touched the blue flames that danced on Natzi’s cup, hovered there a moment, and then was withdrawn just as Natzi turned around.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.”