There were distinguished men present at the trial—men who also fight for their ideals. There was Frederic C. Howe, then Commissioner of Immigration of the Port of New York, Frank P. Walsh, International labor leader, Dudley Field Malone, then Collector of the Port of New York, Amos Pinchot, liberal leader, John A. H. Hopkins, then liberal-progressive leader in New Jersey who had turned his organization to the support of the President and become a member of the President’s Campaign Committee, now chairman of the Committee of Fortyeight and whose beautiful wife was among the prisoners, Allen McCurdy, secretary of the Committee of Forty-eight and many others. One and all came forward to protest to us during the adjournment. “This is monstrous.” . . . “Never have I seen evidence so disregarded.” . . . “This is a tragic farce” . . . “He will never dare sentence you.” It was reported to us that the judge used the interim to telephone to the District building, where the District Commissioners sit. He returned to pronounce, “Sixty days in the workhouse in default of a twenty-five dollar fine.” The shock was swift and certain to all the spectators. We would not of course pay the unjust fine imposed, for we were not guilty of any offense. The judge attempted persuasion. “You had better decide to pay your fines,” he ventured. And “you will not find jail a pleasant place to be.” It was clear that neither he nor his confreres had imagined women would accept with equanimity so drastic a sentence. It was now their time to be shocked. Here were “ladies”—that was perfectly clear—“ladies” of unusual distinction. Surely they would not face the humiliation of a workhouse sentence which involved not only imprisonment but penal servitude! The Administration was wrong again. “We protest against this unjust sentence and conviction,” we said, “but we prefer the workhouse to the payment of a fine imposed for an offense of which we are not guilty.” We filed into the “pen,” to join the other prisoners, and wait for the “black maria” to carry us to prison. We are all taken to the District Jail, where we are put through the regular catechism: “Were you ever in prison before?—Age—birthplace—father—mother—religion and what not?” We are then locked up,—two to a cell. What will happen next? The sleek jailer, whose attempt to be cordial provokes a certain distrust, comes to our corridor to “turn us over” to our next keeper-the warden of Occoquan. We learn that the workhouse is not situated in the District of Columbia but in Virginia.