“You are my Avis,” he said, “and you are also some one else.  You are two women, and therefore you are my harem.  At any rate, we are safe now.  If the United States becomes too hot for us, why I have qualified for citizenship in Turkey."*

     * At that time polygamy was still practised in Turkey.

Life became for me very happy in the refuge.  It is true, we worked hard and for long hours; but we worked together.  We had each other for eighteen precious months, and we were not lonely, for there was always a coming and going of leaders and comrades—­strange voices from the under-world of intrigue and revolution, bringing stranger tales of strife and war from all our battle-line.  And there was much fun and delight.  We were not mere gloomy conspirators.  We toiled hard and suffered greatly, filled the gaps in our ranks and went on, and through all the labour and the play and interplay of life and death we found time to laugh and love.  There were artists, scientists, scholars, musicians, and poets among us; and in that hole in the ground culture was higher and finer than in the palaces of wonder-cities of the oligarchs.  In truth, many of our comrades toiled at making beautiful those same palaces and wonder-cities.*

* This is not braggadocio on the part of Avis Everhard.  The flower of the artistic and intellectual world were revolutionists.  With the exception of a few of the musicians and singers, and of a few of the oligarchs, all the great creators of the period whose names have come down to us, were revolutionists.

Nor were we confined to the refuge itself.  Often at night we rode over the mountains for exercise, and we rode on Wickson’s horses.  If only he knew how many revolutionists his horses have carried!  We even went on picnics to isolated spots we knew, where we remained all day, going before daylight and returning after dark.  Also, we used Wickson’s cream and butter,* and Ernest was not above shooting Wickson’s quail and rabbits, and, on occasion, his young bucks.

     * Even as late as that period, cream and butter were still
     crudely extracted from cow’s milk.  The laboratory
     preparation of foods had not yet begun.

Indeed, it was a safe refuge.  I have said that it was discovered only once, and this brings me to the clearing up of the mystery of the disappearance of young Wickson.  Now that he is dead, I am free to speak.  There was a nook on the bottom of the great hole where the sun shone for several hours and which was hidden from above.  Here we had carried many loads of gravel from the creek-bed, so that it was dry and warm, a pleasant basking place; and here, one afternoon, I was drowsing, half asleep, over a volume of Mendenhall.* I was so comfortable and secure that even his flaming lyrics failed to stir me.