of my family were tremendously excited. I made light of the whole
affair, but I felt sure that this was only the beginning. Sure enough,
next morning--the Sabbath--the same officer returned and put three of
the leading elders of the village, together with myself, under arrest.
After another fruitless inquisition at the hotel, we were handcuffed and
started on foot toward the prison, a day's journey away. As our little
procession passed my home, my father, who was aged and feeble, came
tottering forward to say good-bye to me. A soldier pushed him roughly
back; he reeled, then fell full-length in the street before my eyes.

It was a dismal departure. We were driven through the streets shackled
like criminals, and the women and children 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