one of the inspired figures of the Revolution.  When she was an old woman of sixty-nine she shot “Bloody” Halcliffe down in the midst of his armed escort and got away unscathed.  In the end she died peaceably of old age in a secret refuge of the revolutionists in the Ozark mountains.

Without adventure we crossed the United States to California.  When the train stopped at Sixteenth Street Station, in Oakland, we alighted, and there Felice Van Verdighan, with her two maids, her lap-dog, and her lap-dog’s maid, disappeared forever.  The maids, guided by trusty comrades, were led away.  Other comrades took charge of me.  Within half an hour after leaving the train I was on board a small fishing boat and out on the waters of San Francisco Bay.  The winds baffled, and we drifted aimlessly the greater part of the night.  But I saw the lights of Alcatraz where Ernest lay, and found comfort in the thought of nearness to him.  By dawn, what with the rowing of the fishermen, we made the Marin Islands.  Here we lay in hiding all day, and on the following night, swept on by a flood tide and a fresh wind, we crossed San Pablo Bay in two hours and ran up Petaluma Creek.

Here horses were ready and another comrade, and without delay we were away through the starlight.  To the north I could see the loom of Sonoma Mountain, toward which we rode.  We left the old town of Sonoma to the right and rode up a canyon that lay between outlying buttresses of the mountain.  The wagon-road became a wood-road, the wood-road became a cow-path, and the cow-path dwindled away and ceased among the upland pastures.  Straight over Sonoma Mountain we rode.  It was the safest route.  There was no one to mark our passing.

Dawn caught us on the northern brow, and in the gray light we dropped down through chaparral into redwood canyons deep and warm with the breath of passing summer.  It was old country to me that I knew and loved, and soon I became the guide.  The hiding-place was mine.  I had selected it.  We let down the bars and crossed an upland meadow.  Next, we went over a low, oak-covered ridge and descended into a smaller meadow.  Again we climbed a ridge, this time riding under red-limbed madronos and manzanitas of deeper red.  The first rays of the sun streamed upon our backs as we climbed.  A flight of quail thrummed off through the thickets.  A big jackrabbit crossed our path, leaping swiftly and silently like a deer.  And then a deer, a many-pronged buck, the sun flashing red-gold from neck and shoulders, cleared the crest of the ridge before us and was gone.

We followed in his wake a space, then dropped down a zigzag trail that he disdained into a group of noble redwoods that stood about a pool of water murky with minerals from the mountain side.  I knew every inch of the way.  Once a writer friend of mine had owned the ranch; but he, too, had become a revolutionist, though more disastrously than I, for he was already dead and gone, and none knew where nor how.  He