“Isn’t it just like an assembly of youths in a nigger village?” said one. “They all do the same things. Even tattooing is in fashion. Look, that’s the young Europe.” The voice rang suggestively in my ear. I followed behind the two in the dark street. One of them was a Japanese, small and elegant. I saw his yellow smiling face shine under the lamp. The other spoke again. “Well, I don’t suppose it’s any better with you in Japan. People who do not follow the herd are everywhere rare. There are a few here, too.” Every word went through me. I felt pleasure and dread. I recognized the speaker. It was Demian. In the windy night I followed him and the Japanese through the dark streets, listening to their conversation and enjoying the ring of Demian’s voice. It had the old tone, the old, beautiful sureness and tranquillity, and it had the same power over me. Now everything was right. I had found him. At the end of a street in the suburbs the Japanese took leave and closed a house door behind him. Demian took the way back. I had remained standing, and awaited him in the middle of the street. With beating heart I saw him approaching erect and walking with an elastic step. He wore a brown raincoat and carried a thin stick, hanging from his arm. He advanced without altering his regular stride until he got right up to me. 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.” He pushed his arm through mine and we went on. Tranquillity seemed to emanate from him and pass on to me. We were soon chatting together as formerly. We mentioned our schooldays, the confirmation class and that unlucky meeting of ours in the holidays--only no mention was made of the earliest and closest bond between us, of the affair with Frank Kromer.