Long I pursued my starry quest. When I say "long," you must bear in
mind the enormousextension of time that had occurred in my brain.

For centuries I trod space, with the tip of my wand and with
unerring eye and hand tapping each star I passed. Ever the way grew

brighter. Ever the ineffable goal of infinitewisdom grew nearer.
And yet I made no mistake. This was no other self of mine. This

was no experience that had once been mine. I was aware all the time
that it was I, Darrell Standing, who walked among the stars and

tapped them with a wand of glass. In short, I knew that here was
nothing real, nothing that had ever been nor could ever be. I knew

that it was nothing else than a ridiculous orgy of the imagination,
such as men enjoy in drug dreams, in delirium, or in mere ordinary

slumber.
And then, as all went merry and well with me on my celestial quest,

the tip of my wand missed a star, and on the instant I knew I had
been guilty of a great crime. And on the instant a knock, vast and

compulsive, inexorable and mandatory as the stamp of the iron hoof
of doom, smote me and reverberated across the universe. The whole

sidereal system coruscated, reeled and fell in flame.
I was torn by an exquisite and disruptive agony. And on the instant

I was Darrell Standing, the life-convict, lying in his strait-jacket
in solitary. And I knew the immediate cause of that summons. It

was a rap of the knuckle by Ed Morrell, in Cell Five, beginning the
spelling of some message.

And now, to give some comprehension of the extension of time and
space that I was experiencing. Many days afterwards I asked Morrell

what he had tried to convey to me. It was a simple message, namely:
"Standing, are you there?" He had tapped it rapidly, while the

guard was at the far end of the corridor into which the solitary
cells opened. As I say, he had tapped the message very rapidly.

And now behold! Between the first tap and the second I was off and
away among the stars, clad in fleecy garments, touching each star as

I passed in my pursuit of the formulae that would explain the last
mystery of life. And, as before, I pursued the quest for centuries.

Then came the summons, the stamp of the hoof of doom, the exquisite
disruptive agony, and again I was back in my cell in San Quentin.

It was the second tap of Ed Morrell's knuckle. The interval between
it and the first tap could have been no more than a fifth of a

second. And yet, so unthinkably enormous was the extension of time
to me, that in the course of that fifth of a second I had been away

star-roving for long ages.
Now I know, my reader, that the foregoing seems all a farrago. I

agree with you. It is farrago. It was experience, however. It was
just as real to me as is the snake beheld by a man in delirium

tremens.
Possibly, by the most liberalestimate, it may have taken Ed Morrell

two minutes to tap his question. Yet, to me, aeons elapsed between
the first tap of his knuckle and the last. No longer could I tread

my starry path with that ineffable pristine joy, for my way was
beset with dread of the inevitable summons that would rip and tear

me as it jerked me back to my straitjacket hell. Thus my aeons of
star-wandering were aeons of dread.

And all the time I knew it was Ed Morrell's knuckle that thus
cruelly held me earth-bound. I tried to speak to him, to ask him to

cease. But so thoroughly had I eliminated my body from my
consciousness that I was unable to resurrect it. My body lay dead

in the jacket, though I still inhabited the skull. In vain I strove
to will my foot to tap my message to Morrell. I reasoned I had a

foot. And yet, so thoroughly had I carried out the experiment, I
had no foot.

Next--and I know now that it was because Morrell had spelled his
message quite out--I pursued my way among the stars and was not

called back. After that, and in the course of it, I was aware,
drowsily, that I was falling asleep, and that it was delicious

sleep. From time to time, drowsily, I stirred--please, my reader,
don't miss that verb--I STIRRED. I moved my legs, my arms. I was

aware of clean, soft bed linen against my skin. I was aware of
bodily well-being. Oh, it was delicious! As thirsting men on the

desert dream of splashing fountains and flowing wells, so dreamed I
of easement from the constriction of the jacket, of cleanliness in

the place of filth, of smooth velvety skin of health in place of my
poor parchment-crinkled hide. But I dreamed with a difference, as

you shall see.
I awoke. Oh, broad and wide awake I was, although I did not open my

eyes. And please know that in all that follows I knew no surprise
whatever. Everything was the natural and the expected. I was I, be

sure of that. BUT I WAS NOT DARRELL STANDING. Darrell Standing had
no more to do with the being I was than did Darrell Standing's

parchment-crinkled skin have aught to do with the cool, soft skin
that was mine. Nor was I aware of any Darrell Standing--as I could

not well be, considering that Darrell Standing was as yet unborn and
would not be born for centuries. But you shall see.

I lay with closed eyes, lazily listening. From without came the
clacking of many hoofs moving orderly on stone flags. From the

accompanying jingle of metal bits of man-harness and steed-harness I
knew some cavalcade was passing by on the street beneath my windows.

Also, I wondered idly who it was. From somewhere--and I knew where,
for I knew it was from the inn yard--came the ring and stamp of

hoofs and an impatient neigh that I recognized as belonging to my
waiting horse.

Came steps and movements--steps openly advertised as suppressed with
the intent of silence and that yet were deliberately noisy with the

secret intent of rousing me if I still slept. I smiled inwardly at
the rascal's trick.

"Pons," I ordered, without opening my eyes, "water, cold water,
quick, a deluge. I drank over long last night, and now my gullet

scorches."
"And slept over long to-day," he scolded, as he passed me the water,

ready in his hand.
I sat up, opened my eyes, and carried the tankard to my lips with

both my hands. And as I drank I looked at Pons.
Now note two things. I spoke in French; I was not conscious that I

spoke in French. Not until afterward, back in solitary, when I
remembered what I am narrating, did I know that I had spoken in

French--ay, and spoken well. As for me, Darrell Standing, at
present writing these lines in Murderers' Row of Folsom Prison, why,

I know only high school French sufficient to enable me to read the
language. As for my speaking it--impossible. I can scarcely

intelligibly pronounce my way through a menu.
But to return. Pons was a little withered old man. He was born in

our house--I know, for it chanced that mention was made of it this
very day I am describing. Pons was all of sixty years. He was

mostly toothless, and, despite a pronounced limp that compelled him
to go slippity-hop, he was very alert and spry in all his movements.

Also, he was impudently familiar. This was because he had been in
my house sixty years. He had been my father's servant before I

could toddle, and after my father's death (Pons and I talked of it
this day) he became my servant. The limp he had acquired on a

stricken field in Italy, when the horsemen charged across. He had
just dragged my father clear of the hoofs when he was lanced through

the thigh, overthrown, and trampled. My father, conscious but
helpless from his own wounds, witnessed it all. And so, as I say,

Pons had earned such a right to impudent familiarity that at least
there was no gainsaying him by my father's son.

Pons shook his head as I drained the huge draught.
"Did you hear it boil?" I laughed, as I handed back the empty

tankard.
"Like your father," he said hopelessly. "But your father lived to

learn better, which I doubt you will do."