I seemed to feel an elated sense of superiority—­really I almost began to feel that it was I, not Kennedy, who counted most in this investigation.  I have since learned that this is the common experience of mescal-users, this sense of elation; but the feeling of physical energy and intellectual power soon wore off, and I found myself glad to recline in my easy chair, as the rest did, in silent indolence.

Still, the display that followed for an enchanted hour or so was such as I find it hopeless to describe in language which shall convey to others the beauty and splendour of what I saw.

I picked up a book lying on the table before me.  A pale blue-violet shadow floated across the page before me, leaving an after-image of pure colour that was indescribable.  I laid down the book and closed my eyes.  A confused riot of images and colours like a kaleidoscope crowded before me, at first indistinct, but, as I gazed with closed yes, more and more definite.  Golden and red and green jewels seemed to riot before me.  I bathed my hands in inconceivable riches of beauty such as no art-glass worker has ever produced.  All discomfort ceased.  I had no desire to sleep—­in fact, was hyper-sensitive.  But it was a real effort to open my eyes; to tear myself away from the fascinating visions of shapes and colours.

At last I did open my eyes to gaze at the gasjets of the chandelier as they flickered.  They seemed to send out waves, expanding and contracting, waves of colour.  The shadows of the room were highly coloured and constantly changing as the light changed.

Senora Barrios began lightly to play on the piano the transposed Kiowa song, emphasising the notes that represented the drum-beats.  Strange as it may seem, the music translated itself into pure colour—­and the rhythmic beating of the time seemed to aid the process.  I thought of the untutored Indians as they sat in groups about the flickering camp-fire while others beat the tom-toms and droned the curious melody.  What were the visions of the red man, I wondered, as he chewed his mescal button and the medicine man prayed to Hikori, the cactus god, to grant a “beautiful intoxication?”

Under the gas-lights of the chandelier hung a cluster of electric light bulbs which added to the flood of golden effulgence that bathed the room and all things in it.  I gazed next intently at the electric lights.  They became the sun itself in their steadiness, until I had to turn away my head and close my eyes.  Even then the image persisted—­I saw the golden sands of Newport, only they were blazing with glory as if they were veritable diamond dust:  I saw the waves, of incomparable blue, rolling up on the shore.  A vague perfume was wafted on the air.  I was in an orgy of vision.  Yet there was no stage of maudlin emotion.  It was at least elevating.