He could not have been unconscious many minutes, for the sun still hung on the crest of the hill much where he had seen it last; but he was walking along the road on which he had fallen and must so have walked during his unconsciousness, seeing that he was now perhaps a quarter of a mile from the spot where he had jumped, and proceeding in the opposite direction to that in which the lorry had been travelling. His face was towards the sea and the village through which he had recently passed, his back to the Weald. On his left was a wood, darkened by firs. A dusty motor-bicycle lay up against the bank. Ernie was aware of the machine, as one is aware of something in a book. It was not real to him: he was not real to himself. Indeed he was conscious of one thing only: that some power was guiding him and bidding him keep quiet. He did not attempt to take control. His brain, except as a mirror which reflected passing objects, was passive; and he was content that this should be so. Dimly he wondered if he was dead. Then he realized that the question had no interest for him, and he retired once more into the No Man's Land of the hypnoidal state. A villager was approaching. He saw the man marching towards him as on the screen of a cinema. The man said good evening. Ernie answered, and found himself listening with interest to his own voice. It sounded so loud and alien. He was a puppet in a play, watching his own performance--actor and audience in one. Except for a certain diffused physical discomfort on the remote circumference of his being, he was not happy or unhappy. He was a headache, and that was all he was. But he was a headache which could walk and if necessary talk. Then, still obeying his unseen guide, he turned off the dusty road into the wood upon his left that stretched across the Brooks down towards the stream. On the fringe of the wood he was bidden to stay.... The river ran in front of him a few yards away. On the other bank, immediately opposite him, was a clump of willows. There too was a big young woman in a tan overall. She was sitting on the tow-path, her back against a tree, her arms bound about her knees, her feet in heavy boots pressed close together in an attitude expressing doggedness. She was bare-headed; and her orange turban lay at her feet. Ernie marked her gypsy colouring, red and gold, and the yellow necklace that bound her throat. The sullen expression of her face was enhanced by the gleam of teeth which her lips, drawn back almost to a snarl, revealed. Here surely was a tigress, trapped and resentful. Above her stood a little man in the shining black gaiters and great goggles of a chauffeur. He was talking and smiling. The young woman sat beneath him, her tense arms binding her knees, her eyes down. But this was not the usual drama when the Serpent and the Woman meet. Here the Serpent was taunting Eve, not tempting her. So much her face betrayed.