Once, when I was a boy at the seaside in Wales, I dived into a deep rock pool, and, deceived by the clearness of the water, hit my head against a submerged ledge, and for several seconds was stunned. There was no one with me, but, fortunately, I recovered in time, and with bursting lungs regained the surface.
The experience was repeated now, or so it seemed, with a curious subconscious memory. I thought that I was rushing violently upwards towards the light out of a well of darkness. Each moment the radiance increased and my speed grew greater. There was a sound as of many waters in my ears.
I opened my eyes. The light was brilliant, painful. Also, it moved and flashed, and so it was not the sun of twenty years before beating down....
Someone spoke: "Yes, it's the man himself. He's shaved off his moustache, and his hair and skin are dyed. He's a fair chap really. Look at his lower neck and chest. It's Sir John Custance right enough!"
I lay and listened. Although I heard every word, and perceived that an electric torch was dancing about, the conversation hardly seemed to concern me.
There was another voice: "Vargus said he admitted it, but Vargus has fainted again."
Hands felt me all over. Things were taken from my pockets, and there were sharp exclamations of surprise. Somebody gave a long, low whistle.
"No bones broken. His eyes are opening. Give me that flash, Gascoigne."
Someone poured brandy down my throat—I knew it was brandy—and I moved my limbs and groaned.
Then I heard a shout as a door that I could not see was burst open. "Feddon's killed!" came in a high, excited voice. "Poor old Feddy's shot through the heart."