n came out of the houses and
watched us in silence--their heads bowed, tears running down their
cheeks. They realized that for thirty-five years these old men, my
comrades, had been struggling and suffering for their ideal--a
regenerated Palestine; now, in the dusk of their life, it seemed as if
all their hopes and dreams were coming to ruin. The oppressive tragedy
of the situation settled down on me more and more heavily as the day
wore on and heat and fatigue told on my companions. My feelings must
have been written large on my face, for one of them, a fine-looking
patriarch, tried to give me comfort by reminding me that we must not
rely upon strength of arms, and that our spirit could never be broken,
no matter how defenseless we were. Thus he, an old man, was encouraging
me instead of receiving help from my youth and enthusiasm.

At last we arrived at the prison and were locked into separate cells.
That same night we were tortured with the _falagy_, or bastinado. The
victim of this horrible punishment is trussed up, arms and legs, and
thrown on his knees; then, on the bare soles of his feet a pliant green
rod is brought down with all the force of a soldier's arm. The pain is
exquisite; blood leaps out at the first cut, and strong men usually
faint after thirty or forty strokes. Strange to say, the worst part of
it is not the blow itself, but the whistling of the rod through the air
as it rushes to its mark. The groans of my older comrades, whose gasps
and prayers I could hear through the walls of the cell, helped me bear
the agony until unconsciousness mercifully came to the rescue.

For several days more we were kept in the prison, sick and broken with
suffering. The second night, as I lay sleepless and desperate on the
strip of dirty matting that served as bed, I heard a scratch-scratching
at the grated slit of a window, and presently a slender stick was
inserted into the cell. I went over and shook it; some one at the other
end was holding it firm. And then, a curious whispering sound began to
come from the end of the stick. I put my ear down, and caught the voice
of one of the men from our village. He had taken a long bamboo pole,
pierced the joints, and crept up behind a broken old wall close beneath
my window. By means of this primitive telephone we talked as long as we
dared. I assured him that we were still enduring, and urged him on no
account to give up the arms to the Turkish authorities--not even if we