I signed to her to cut the tree, as the voice in my dream had directed me.

Without a word of question Yamba picked up the tomahawk from where she had hurled it, and then cut vigorously into the trunk, making a hole three or four inches deep.

It may seem astonishing to you, but it surprised me in no wise when out from the hole there _trickled a clear_, _uncertain stream of water_, under which Yamba promptly held my fevered head.

This had a wonderfully refreshing effect upon me, and in a short time I was able to speak feebly but rationally, greatly to the delight of my faithful companion.

As, however, I was still too weak to move, I indulged in another and far sounder sleep.