Philip's dream boat docked with a painful thud of memory.

Wincing painfully he sat up.
"Easy, old top!" he advised ruefully, as the dog bounded against him.
"It would seem that we're an invalid with an infernal bump on the back of our head and a bandaged shoulder." He peered curiously through the tent flap and whistled softly.

"By George, Nero," he added under his breath, "we're in the camp of my beautiful gypsy lady!" There was a bucket of water by the tent flap.

Philip painfully made a meager toilet, glanced doubtfully at the coarse cotton garment which by one of the mystifying events of the previous night had replaced the silk shirt he had worn from Sherrill's, and emerged from the tent.
It was early morning.

A fresh fire was crackling merrily about a pot of coffee.