By an effort that made my head ache, I said "Doctor Ki-me," and
simultaneously reproduced "Doctor Khay-me" with letters before my brain.
It would not do.
Yet, though this double process had failed, I was not discouraged. I
thought of no other name. Everything else had been definitely abandoned.
Without reasoning upon it I knew that the name was right, and I knew,
as if by intuition, how to proceed to a conclusion. I tried again, and
knew beforehand that I should succeed.
This last time--for, as I say, I knew it would be the last--I did three
things.
There was yet light. I was lying in my place in the line, on top of the
hill, a man five paces from me on either side. I wrote "Doctor Khayme."
I held the words before my eyes; I called the face of my dream before
me; I said to the face, "Doctor Ki-me."