It was something white, the edge of something, a frame of wood. He moved
his head slightly, following the contour of this shape. It went up
beyond the top of his eyes. He tried to think where he might be. Did it
matter, seeing he was so wretched? The colour of his thoughts was a dark
depression. He felt the featureless misery of one who wakes towards the
hour of dawn. He had an uncertain sense of whispers and footsteps
hastily receding.

The movement of his head involved a perception of extreme physical
weakness. He supposed he was in bed in the hotel at the place in the
valley--but he could not recall that white edge. He must have slept. He
remembered now that he had wanted to sleep. He recalled the cliff and
Waterfall again, and then recollected something about talking to a
passer-by....

How long had he slept? What was that sound of pattering feet? And that
rise and fall, like the murmur of breakers on pebbles? He put out a
languid hand to reach his watch from the chair whereon it was his habit
to place it, and touched some smooth hard surface like glass. This was so
unexpected that it startled him extremely. Quite suddenly he rolled over,
stared for a moment, and struggled into a sitting position. The effort
was unexpectedly difficult, and it left him giddy and weak--and amazed.

He rubbed his eyes. The riddle of his surroundings was confusing but his
mind was quite clear--evidently his sleep had benefited him. He was not
in a bed at all as he understood the word, but lying naked on a very soft
and yielding mattress, in a trough of dark glass. The mattress was
partly transparent, a fact he observed with a sense of insecurity, and
below it was a mirror reflecting him greyly. About his arm--and he saw
with a shock that his skin was strangely dry and yellow--was bound a