On Sunday night I was removed to the hospital and there a fresh effort was made to get me to take food. Medicine was brought to me, which I absolutely refused, knowing that it was either food in disguise or else intended to aggravate my hunger. On Monday afternoon my head felt exceedingly bad and I hardly knew what I was doing, but I determined that I would not give in. In the evening the Governor came to me and said, "Be very calm." I said to him, "There is a supreme power which gives us strength to bear whatever comes to us." He said, "I have orders to release you," and I said to him, "Does Mr. Gladstone prefer this to doing us justice?" The other prisoners all told similar stories, each of which unconsciously displayed the most wonderful heroism. One day Miss Mary Allen fell fainting on the stone floor of her punishment cell and when, weak and numb with cold, she regained consciousness, she sang the Women's Marseillaise to cheer herself, and to her delight the occupant of the next cell joined in. So, bravely struggling, each of the women won her way out to freedom, having fasted bravely, some for six and a half, others for six, five and a half, or five days. Think of the courage of it! To be confined there in semi-darkness when a word would procure release. To withstand the terrible pangs of hunger with food always before one's eyes, distracted by the fever of that unhealthy and fœtid place. To feel oneself growing gradually weaker and weaker, and to know that but a little more, perhaps suddenly, any moment without warning, and the heart will stop. And yet never, never to falter, always to cling on to the word of their faith and the great impersonal ideal. Think of the wonderful courage of it! And after their release it was only with utmost care and cherishing that these dear women were won back to life and in their feeble weariness they felt, even when lying on the softest bed, as though they were stretched upon iron bars.