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.