VII

He took off his hat, displaying his old, bright face with the determined mouth and the peculiar brightness on the broad forehead.

“Demian!” I called.

He stretched out his hand to me.

“So it’s you, then, Sinclair? I expected you.”

“Did you know I was here?”

“I did not know for certain, but I hoped it might be true. I saw you first this evening. You have been behind us the whole time.”

“You recognized me then at once?”

“Of course. You’re very much changed to be sure; but you have the sign. We used to call it the mark of Cain, if you recollect. It is our sign. You have always had it; for that reason I became your friend. But now it is clearer.”

“I did not know. Or rather I did. I once painted a picture of you, Demian, and was astonished that it was also like me. Was that the sign?”

“That was it. It’s fine that you are here now! My mother will be glad as well.”

I started.

“Your mother? Is she here? She doesn’t know me a bit.”

“Oh, she knows of you. She will know, without even my asking her, who you are. You haven’t let me hear from you for a long time.”

“Oh, I often wanted to write, but nothing came of it. For some time past I have felt I should find you. I was waiting for it every day.”