With the dawn came the habitual sense of having to get up and begin to do something. Seng-teh had been used to rise at dawn as far back as he could remember. He felt the force of long habit. It was as a strong undercurrent. Part of him seemed more or less sensible of his present surroundings. But the mechanical seemed to predominate for the moment. He rose to his feet, rubbed his eyes, and stretched, then looking away to the west he saw the strange landscape. He was not at home then, nor—it took a moment or two to come—on the small gunboat. Yet there were the hills once familiar to him at one time. When was it? In the Taiping camp? But they seemed reversed. They were. The Inverted Pan Hill was towards the left now. Yes, he was the other side of them. He was alone on the Tortoise Hill. He felt alone. Every morning hitherto had brought with it something to do, and someone to speak to, or someone to command him. It is a rare thing to be ever alone in China. He felt lonesome indeed. His head pained him. He instinctively undid his cloth girdle, tore off a piece and tied it round his temples, feeling as he did so that his hair was clotted together with dried blood.