in space; beneath me oceans and seas faded into the pallid and
indistinguishable distance, and as I journeyed I was ever enwrapped
in that twilight bespeaking a dead world. . . . After a few minutes I
suddenly found myself encompassed by the darkness of the noble trees in
the valley of Fataua.

There in the valley my dream continued, for I ceased to believe in
it,--the utter impossibility of really being there impressed itself upon
my mind,--for very often I had been duped by such illusions which always
vanished when I awoke. My main concern was lest I should wake wholly,
for the vision, incomplete as it was, enchanted me. At least the carpet
of rare ferns was really there. As I groped in the night air and plucked
them I said to myself: "Surely these plants are real, for I can touch
them and I have them in my hand; surely they will not disappear when the
dream vanishes." And I grasped them with all my strength to be sure of
keeping them.

I awoke. A beautiful summer day had dawned, and in the village was heard
the noise of recommencing life. The continual clucking of the hens as
they roamed about in the streets, and the click-clack of the weaver's
loom caused me to realize where I was. My empty hand was still shut
tight, and the nails were pressed almost into the flesh, the better to
guard that imaginary bouquet of Fataua, composed of the impalpable stuff
of dreams.




CHAPTER XLVII.