Those were the only words spoken. With staring eyes I gazed into the fire.
Lulled by the tranquillity of the room, I sank in dreams, seeing shapes in the smoke and pictures in the ashes.
Once I started up. My companion had thrown a little bit of resin into the glow.
A little slender flame shot up, I saw in it the bird with the gold hawk’s head.
In the glow which died away in the fireplace, golden glittering threads wove themselves together into a net,
letters and pictures, memories of faces, of animals, of plants, of worms and serpents.
When I woke from my reveries and looked across at my companion, he was absorbed,
staring at the ashes with the fixed gaze of a fanatic, his chin in his hands.
“I must go now,” I said softly. “Well, go then, good-bye!”
He did not get up, and as the lamp had gone out, I had to feel my way across the dark room,
through dark corridors and down the stairs, and so out of the enchanted old dwelling.
Once in the street I stopped and looked up at the house. In not one of the windows was a light burning.
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