"There was a mutiny among a few of the men, demanding a change in their food. They were working all day for nothing but that food, but because of their demand, they were thrown into the dark dungeon, fed on bread and water for ten days, and I saw some of those men, as they came out from the darkness into the light, faint on the prison floor. One of them was an old man with a long, snow-white flowing beard, and you know how proud an old man is of a beautiful beard. Well, I was ordered to cut it off and he pleaded as the young woman did for her hair, but in vain. He said to me, 'This is my first time on the Island. My wife knows I am here, but my children don't. Wife has forgiven me, and I am to leave in a few days, and I had looked forward to such a happy home coming, but they won't recognize me now, and this puts upon me a double infamy. All of my friends know I am here. I did not mean to be uncivil, I meant to do right, but I was drawn into the revolt, not realizing I was doing wrong which would put us in the dungeon. I feel so weary and broken. I wish now more than ever that my prayer in the dark dungeon had been answered, for I prayed many times in there, that when the light came to me again it would be the light from that land of Him who said, "I was sick and in prison and ye visited me."'" I looked in wonder at the man speaking to me, scarcely believing him. He noticed my expression and said, "Those were his words, his very words. I remember them for they impressed me." "Is this true?" I asked. "Is there a law in Massachusetts allowing a man to be condemned and thrust into a dungeon for ten days for a petty offense like this?" "I have not told to you one hundredth part of the suffering I saw at Deer Island. The cells there are absolutely dark. There is a small slide in the door where the doctor peeps in to see if a man is dead, or gone mad." "If he is dead, what then?" "Well, if he has no friends, he is put into a box and carried just over the hill to the burying plot called 'The Haven.'" I was so touched by this man's story, I could listen no longer. I got up and took him by the arm and said, "Let's cut out our fault." He replied, "I'll have to, I guess, for its cutting me out." I strolled on up the Common, and thought of all it meant, "The Haven" over the hill. This man told me he had been a citizen of Boston all his life. Who would believe this story of a destitute old floatsam cast up from the wreckage of America's temple of Elegance? Had he told me the truth or a lie? I have many reasons to believe every word he told me was true, but there is no man who can verify this story, except the man who has done forty days at Deer Island. In a conventional visit to the Island, I looked into the men's prison just far enough to see tier upon tier of small cells in which all the prisoners are locked for twelve hours of every day. The dungeons I did not see as they are never open to visitors.