He drained it to the last drop, and hurled it contemptuously against the wall, so that it was shivered to pieces. Immediately afterwards he seized a second glass—
"I drink to my enemies."
With a wild peal of laughter he hurled the second glass into the air. In its flight it almost reached the ceiling, but it fell back again on the couch and did not break.
"See, it mocks me and will not break!" exclaimed Banfi, with sparkling eyes.
Azrael sprang up, seized the glass, and crushed it beneath her foot.
In Banfi's heart the flames of three passions began to mingle—wrath, intoxication, and frantic love.
He raised the third glass to his lips, and while the girl held his body fast embraced, Banfi exclaimed, with flushed face and strident voice—
"I drink to Transylvania."
He drained the glass, but when he took it from his lips, the smile had frozen on his face, and instead of dashing the glass against the wall, he placed it gently on the table. A cold shudder ran through him at his own words—"I drink to Transylvania."
He did not remove his hand from the glass, and would shyly have put it aside in a safe place, when the crystal, without any visible cause, suddenly burst in pieces, filling the magnate's hand with a million fragments.