Warden Atherton, when he thinks of me, must feel anything but pride.

I have taught him what spirit is, humbled him with my own spirit that rose invulnerable, triumphant, above all his tortures.

I sit here in Folsom, in Murderers' Row, awaiting my execution; Warden Atherton still holds his political job and is king over San Quentin and all the damned within its walls; and yet, in his heart of hearts, he knows that I am greater than he.
In vain Warden Atherton tried to break my spirit.

And there were times, beyond any shadow of doubt, when he would have been glad had I died in the jacket.

So the long inquisition went on.