Jimbo had fallen on his head.  Inside that head lay the mass of highly sensitive matter called the brain, on which were recorded, of course, the impressions of everything that had yet come to him in life.  A severe shock, such as he had just sustained, was bound to throw these impressions into confusion and disorder, jumbling them up into new and strange combinations, obliterating some, and exaggerating others.  Jimbo himself was helpless in the matter; he could exercise no control over their antics until the doctors had once again reduced them to order; he would have to wander, lost and lonely, through the comparative chaos of disproportioned visions, generally known as the region of delirium, until the doctor, assisted by mother nature, restored him once more to normal consciousness.

For a time everything was a blank, but presently he stirred uneasily in the grass, and the pictures graven on the tablets of his mind began to come back to him line by line.

Yet, with certain changes:  the bull, for instance, had so far vanished into the background of his thoughts that it had practically disappeared altogether, and he recalled nothing of it but the wings ­the huge, flapping wings.  Of the creature to whom the wings belonged he had no recollection beyond that it was very large, and that it was chasing him from the Empty House.  The pain in his shoulders had also gone; but what remained with undiminished vividness were the sensations of flight without escape, the breathless race up into the sky, and the swift, tumbling drop again through the air on to the lawn.

This impression of rushing through space ­short though the actual distance had been ­was the dominating memory.  All else was apparently oblivion.  He forgot where he came from, and he forgot what he had been doing.  The events leading up to the catastrophe, indeed everything connected with his existence previously as “Master James,” had entirely vanished; and the slate of memory had been wiped so clean that he had forgotten even his own name!

Jimbo was lying, so to speak, on the edge of unconsciousness, and for a time it seemed uncertain whether he would cross the line into the region of delirium and dreams, or fall back again into his natural world.  Terror, assisted by the horns of the black bull, had tossed him into the borderland.

His last scream, however, had reached the ears of the ubiquitous gardener, and help was near at hand.  He heard voices that seemed to come from beyond the stars, and was aware that shadowy forms were standing over him and talking in whispers.  But it was all very unreal; one minute the voices sounded up in the sky, and the next in his very ears, while the figures moved about, sometimes bending over him, sometimes retreating and melting away like shadows on a shifting screen.

Suddenly a blaze of light flashed upon him, and his eyes flew open; he tumbled back for a moment into his normal world.  He wasn’t on the grass at all, but was lying upon his own bed in the night nursery.  His mother was bending over him with a very white face, and a tall man dressed in black stood beside her, holding some kind of shining instrument in his fingers.  A little behind them he saw Nixie, shading a lamp with her hand.  Then the white face came close over the pillow, and a voice full of tenderness whispered, “My darling boy, don’t you know me?  It’s mother!  No one will hurt you.  Speak to me, if you can, dear.”

She stretched out her hands, and Jimbo knew her and made an effort to answer.  But it seemed to him as if his whole body had suddenly become a solid mass of iron, and he could control no part of it; his lips and his hands both refused to move.  Before he could make a sign that he had understood and was trying to reply, a fierce flame rushed between them and blinded him, his eyes closed, and he dropped back again into utter darkness.  The walls flew asunder and the ceiling melted into air, while the bed sank away beneath him, down, down, down into an abyss of shadows.  The lamp in Nixie’s hands dwindled into a star, and his mother’s anxious face became a tiny patch of white in the distance, blurred out of all semblance of a human countenance.  For a time the man in black seemed to hover over the bed as it sank, as though he were trying to follow it down; but it, too, presently joined the general enveloping blackness and lost its outline.  The pain had blotted out everything, and the return to consciousness had been only momentary.

Not all the doctors in the world could have made things otherwise.  Jimbo was off on his travels at last ­travels in which the chief incidents were directly traceable to the causes and details of his accident:  the terror of the Empty House, the pursuit of its Inmate, the pain of the bull’s horns, and, above all, the flight through the air.

For everything in his subsequent adventures found its inspiration in the events described, and a singular parallel ran ever between the Jimbo upon the bed in the night-nursery and the other emancipated Jimbo wandering in the regions of unconsciousness and delirium.