march upstairs and
into the large assembly room, which is on the second story, immediately
above the mess-hall. Here our company has seats on the right of the main
aisle about two-thirds of the way to the platform. Row after row of men
take their seats, until the large room is entirely filled with silent,
motionless, gray figures. I do not see those sitting behind, I only hear
them, for like the rest I stare straight in front of me.

Then I hear the sound of hand-clapping; and when I can see without turning
my head, I join in the applause that greets the Chaplain and an organist
and quartet of singers from one of the Auburn churches. As some of them
are my personal friends, I can not help wishing that they had not chosen
this particular Sunday to sing here.

In vain I try to fasten my attention upon the service, I can only follow
my own thoughts. It is but one short week since I occupied a seat upon
that same platform, and that short week has altered the whole tenor of my
life. It can never be the same again that it has been. Whether I wish it
or not, a bond of union has been forged between these men and me which can
never be broken. I have actually lived their life, even if for only a
short period of time; I have been made one of the gray brotherhood--for
they have received me as a brother; and I have realized their sufferings
because in a very small degree I have shared them.

But at the present moment what am I to do? When I am called up to the
platform, as I soon shall be, what shall I say to these men? I must not
speak of the jail; but how can I help speaking of it? It is the one thing
that just now dominates my mind.

The singing is beautiful and restful. I could enjoy it were it not for
this terrible feeling of oppression at my head and heart. Finally the
critical moment arrives. The Chaplain advances to the front of the stage.

"At this point in the service," he says, "we are to have something of a
departure from the usual order of exercises. Last Sunday you listened to
an address which the Honorable Thomas Mott Osborne came here to give you.
To-day we are going to invite someone from your midst to speak."

The Chaplain pauses, then clears his throat and says, "We have with us
here to-day a man who calls himself Thomas Brown."

With a startling suddenness that seems to threaten the roof comes a
terrific explosion of hand-clapping, sounding, as a visitor afterwards
described it, like a million of fire crack