When I returned after several hours, wet from the rain and wind, Demian himself opened the front door to me.
He took me with him up to his room. A gas flame burned in the laboratory, paper lay about, he appeared to have been working.
“Sit down,” he invited, “you must be tired, it was a terrible storm; it’s evident, you were overtaken by it. Tea is coming at once.”
“Something is the matter to-day,” I began hesitatingly, “it can’t only be that bit of a storm.” He looked at me penetratingly.
“Have you seen anything?” “Yes. I saw a picture clearly in the clouds, for an instant.”
“What sort of a picture?” “It was a bird.” “The hawk? Was it that? The bird of your dream?”
“Yes, it was my hawk. It was yellow and of giant size, it flew up into the blue-black heaven.” Demian took a deep breath.
Someone knocked at the door. The aged servant brought in tea. “Take a cup, Sinclair, do. I don’t think it was by chance you saw the bird.”
“Chance? Does one see such things by chance?” “Well, no. It means something. Do you know what?”
“No. I only feel, it means a violent shock, the approach of fate. I think it will affect all of us.” He walked violently up and down.
“The approach of fate!” he exclaimed loudly. “I dreamed the same thing myself last night,
and my mother yesterday had a premonition, portending the same thing.
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