If I were not off my head how came I to imagine that a lovely dark-eyed girl was bending over me sprinkling water on my face?
A white girl, too, not a Kaffir woman.

However, the dream went on.
"Hendrika," said a voice in English, the sweetest voice that I had ever heard; somehow it reminded me of wind whispering in the trees at night.
"Hendrika, I fear he dies; there is a flask of brandy in my saddle-bag; get it." "Ah! ah!" grunted a harsh voice in answer; "let him die, Miss Stella.

He will bring you bad luck--let him die, I say." I felt a movement of air above me as though the woman of my vision turned swiftly, and once again I opened my eyes.

She had risen, this dream woman.

Now I saw that she was tall and graceful as a reed.