There was a fish in the river, and I was swimming after the fish. Cool, cool river!
It was an ugly fish, and I was pursuing it, and the river was warm.
The fish was Vane-Cartwright, and I was pursuing him. Warm, warm river!
The river was gone from my dream, and I was pursuing Vane-Cartwright over a great plain. Warmer and warmer!
I pursued him through thick woodlands. Sultry and stifling!
I pursued him over a great mountain. Burning, burning hot!
I leapt to my feet calling “Fire!”
In waking fact, the thatched cottage was in a blaze.
I called with all my might to Mrs. Trethewy. I told her to run out while I brought out her daughter, and she answered.
I burst into the girl’s little room on the ground floor. It was full of smoke; she was suffocating before she could wake. I tore her from her bed, and bore her through the door and on to the footbridge. I turned my head back towards the house to call again to Mrs. Trethewy, when a hoarse cry of “Fire!” came from the other direction, and a man—he seemed an old grey-bearded rustic—ran on to the bridge towards the door, dashed with full force against us, and overturned me and my half-conscious burden.