At the same time my brother, Orson Pratt, whom I had not seen for a year, came from Illinois to see me, but was only permitted to visit me for a few moments, and then was ordered to depart. Mrs. Phelps, who had waited in prison for some days, in hopes that the Court would release her husband, now parted with him, overwhelmed with sorrow and tears, and, with her infant, went away to remove to Illinois. Thus our families wander in a strange land, without protection, being robbed of house and home. O Lord! how long? Our number in prison were now reduced to four--one having been added about the middle of April. His name was King Follett; he was dragged from his distressed family just as they were leaving the State, being charged with robbery, which meant that he was one of a posse who took a keg of powder from a gang of ruffians who were out against the _Mormons_. Thus, of all the _Mormon_ prisoners first kidnapped, only two remained in the State--Mr. Gibbs having denied the faith to try and regain his liberty--these were Morris Phelps and myself. All who were liberated on bail were forced to leave the State, together with those who bailed them, thus forfeiting many thousands of dollars to the coffers of the State. Is it possible! Have I been recording the history of realities as the scenes transpired in the broad light of the nineteenth century--in the boasted land of liberty--and in the most renowned republic now existing on the globe? Alas! it is too true; would to God it were a dream--a novel, a romance that had no existence save in the wild regions of fancy. But the prison door yet grating on its hinges,--the absence of my wife and little ones--the gloom of the dungeon where I yet repose,--these and ten thousand other things cause me to think that my almost incredible narrative is no fiction, but an awful reality--a fact more truly distressing than my feeble tongue or pen can find words to set forth. How often in my sleeping visions I see my beloved wife, or my playful children surrounded with the pleasures of home in my sweet little cottage, or walk with them in some pleasant grove or flowery field, as in years past. How often I see myself surrounded with listening thousands, as in bygone years, and join with them in the sacred song and prayer, or address them with the sound of the everlasting gospel. But, alas! I soon awake, and, to my inexpressible grief and sorrow, find myself still in my lonely dungeon. O Liberty! O sound once delightful to every American ear! O sacred privilege of American citizenship! Once sacred; now trampled under foot. When shall I and my injured family and friends again enjoy thy sweets? When shall we repose beneath thy bower, or bask in thy boundless ocean of felicity? When shall we sit again under our vine and under our fruit trees, and worship our God, with none to molest or make us afraid? Awake, O Americans! Arise, O sons and daughters of freedom!