queraded as a revolutionist and penetrated deep into the secrets
of our organization. Without doubt he was on my trail, for we had long
since learned that my disappearance had been cause of deep concern to
the secret service of the Oligarchy. Luckily, as the outcome proved, he
had not divulged his discoveries to any one. He had evidently delayed
reporting, preferring to wait until he had brought things to a
successful conclusion by discovering my hiding-place and capturing me.
His information died with him. Under some pretext, after the girls had
landed at Petaluma Creek and taken to the horses, he managed to get away
from the boat.

Part way up Sonoma Mountain, John Carlson let the girls go on, leading
his horse, while he went back on foot. His suspicions had been aroused.
He captured the spy, and as to what then happened, Carlson gave us a
fair idea.

"I fixed him," was Carlson's unimaginative way of describing the affair.
"I fixed him," he repeated, while a sombre light burnt in his eyes, and
his huge, toil-distorted hands opened and closed eloquently. "He made no
noise. I hid him, and tonight I will go back and bury him deep."

During that period I used to marvel at my own metamorphosis. At times it
seemed impossible, either that I had ever lived a placid, peaceful life
in a college town, or else that I had become a revolutionist inured to
scenes of violence and death. One or the other could not be. One was
real, the other was a dream, but which was which? Was this present
life of a revolutionist, hiding in a hole, a nightmare? or was I a
revolutionist who had somewhere, somehow, dreamed that in some former
existence I have lived in Berkeley and never known of life more violent
than teas and dances, debating societies, and lectures rooms? But then I
suppose this was a common experience of all of us who had rallied under
the red banner of the brotherhood of man.

I often remembered figures from that other life, and, curiously enough,
they appeared and disappeared, now and again, in my new life. There was
Bishop Morehouse. In vain we searched for him after our organization had
developed. He had been transferred from asylum to asylum. We traced him
from the state hospital for the insane at Napa to the one in Stockton,
and from there to the one in the Santa Clara Valley called Agnews, and
there the trail ceased. There was no record of his death. In some way he
must have escaped. Little did I dream of the awful manner