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"
This
time
he
agrees
with
the
majority
of
the
authorities
,
"
announced
the
missionary
with
huge
satisfaction
.
"
The
hill
is
Golgotha
,
the
Place
of
Skulls
,
or
,
as
you
please
,
so
named
because
it
resembles
a
skull
.
Notice
the
resemblance
.
That
is
where
they
crucified
--
"
He
broke
off
and
turned
to
me
.
"
Whom
did
they
crucify
there
,
young
scholar
?
Tell
us
what
else
you
see
.
"
Oh
,
I
saw
--
my
father
reported
that
my
eyes
were
bulging
;
but
I
shook
my
head
stubbornly
and
said
:
"
I
ai
n't
a-goin
'
to
tell
you
because
you
're
laughin
'
at
me
.
I
seen
lots
an
'
lots
of
men
killed
there
.
They
nailed
'em
up
,
an
'
it
took
a
long
time
.
I
seen
--
but
I
ai
n't
a-goin
'
to
tell
.
I
do
n't
tell
lies
.
You
ask
dad
an
'
ma
if
I
tell
lies
.
He
'd
whale
the
stuffin
'
out
of
me
if
I
did
.
Ask
'm
.
"
And
thereat
not
another
word
could
the
missionary
get
from
me
,
even
though
he
baited
me
with
more
photographs
that
sent
my
head
whirling
with
a
rush
of
memory-pictures
and
that
urged
and
tickled
my
tongue
with
spates
of
speech
which
I
sullenly
resisted
and
overcame
.
"
He
will
certainly
make
a
good
Bible
scholar
,
"
the
missionary
told
father
and
mother
after
I
had
kissed
them
good-night
and
departed
for
bed
.
"
Or
else
,
with
that
imagination
,
he
'll
become
a
successful
fiction-writer
.
"
Which
shows
how
prophecy
can
go
agley
.
I
sit
here
in
Murderers
'
Row
,
writing
these
lines
in
my
last
days
,
or
,
rather
,
in
Darrell
Standing
's
last
days
ere
they
take
him
out
and
try
to
thrust
him
into
the
dark
at
the
end
of
a
rope
,
and
I
smile
to
myself
.
I
became
neither
Bible
scholar
nor
novelist
.
On
the
contrary
,
until
they
buried
me
in
the
cells
of
silence
for
half
a
decade
,
I
was
everything
that
the
missionary
forecasted
not
--
an
agricultural
expert
,
a
professor
of
agronomy
,
a
specialist
in
the
science
of
the
elimination
of
waste
motion
,
a
master
of
farm
efficiency
,
a
precise
laboratory
scientist
where
precision
and
adherence
to
microscopic
fact
are
absolute
requirements
.
And
I
sit
here
in
the
warm
afternoon
,
in
Murderers
'
Row
,
and
cease
from
the
writing
of
my
memoirs
to
listen
to
the
soothing
buzz
of
flies
in
the
drowsy
air
,
and
catch
phrases
of
a
low-voiced
conversation
between
Josephus
Jackson
,
the
negro
murderer
on
my
right
,
and
Bambeccio
,
the
Italian
murderer
on
my
left
,
who
are
discussing
,
through
grated
door
to
grated
door
,
back
and
forth
past
my
grated
door
,
the
antiseptic
virtues
and
excellences
of
chewing
tobacco
for
flesh
wounds
.
And
in
my
suspended
hand
I
hold
my
fountain
pen
,
and
as
I
remember
that
other
hands
of
me
,
in
long
gone
ages
,
wielded
ink-brush
,
and
quill
,
and
stylus
,
I
also
find
thought-space
in
time
to
wonder
if
that
missionary
,
when
he
was
a
little
lad
,
ever
trailed
clouds
of
glory
and
glimpsed
the
brightness
of
old
star-roving
days
.
Well
,
back
to
solitary
,
after
I
had
learned
the
code
of
knuckle-talk
and
still
found
the
hours
of
consciousness
too
long
to
endure
.
By
self-hypnosis
,
which
I
began
successfully
to
practise
,
I
became
able
to
put
my
conscious
mind
to
sleep
and
to
awaken
and
loose
my
subconscious
mind
.
But
the
latter
was
an
undisciplined
and
lawless
thing
.
It
wandered
through
all
nightmarish
madness
,
without
coherence
,
without
continuity
of
scene
,
event
,
or
person
.
