As the long winter months crept by, her sleep became more and more profound, less haunted by the hideous nightmares of the past, and though she at first rebelled, ashamed of her growing weakness, she was soon forced to yield to the resistless demands of outraged nature.
In this she was supported by her husband, who, unknown to her, was acting on the advice of the famous nerve-specialist who had watched her unobserved.
"Let her sleep, if need be for a year, and in the end you will find her normal and restored, of that I am convinced," he had said; and in these words her husband found his greatest comfort, as he tucked his little dormouse in and tip-toed from the darkened room.
Hansie lost count of time, but there were two days in the week of which she was quite sure—the day on which the South African mail reached her and the day on which it was dispatched. In between she slept, as we have seen, but when she woke she always knew that her enfranchised spirit had been to her native land.
A full year had gone by, fifteen months, and when the first breath of winter once more touched the land she gradually became aware of voices calling to her, insistent, imperative voices from across the seas.
"I must go," she said. "What am I doing here? South Africa is calling. My people want me there. You and I must go. There is a great work for us both." And he, no less ardent and enthusiastic, yielded to her prayers, bade farewell to home and fatherland, sailed away with her to the unknown.
"In all the world," she said, "there is no pain to be compared with the pain of being born a patriot; but a patriot in exile—may Heaven protect me from the tragedy of such a fate!"