"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 in which I
was to see him once again--the fleeting glimpse of him in the whirlwind
carnage of the Chicago Commune.

Jackson, who had lost his arm in the Sierra Mills and who had been the
cause of my own conversion into a revolutionist, I never saw again;
but we all knew what he did before he died. He never joined the