As the cross-examination continued, Sacco found himself caught in a web of words of which he could see each strand as it formed, from which he knew he could break out if only they would let him. But always it was the _yes_ or _no_ answer demanded, always the cutting-off of his explanation, that made it seem as if he had come back from Mexico merely to eat better food and to make more money and to be with his wife and speak a more familiar language. “Food, wife, language, industry—that is love of country, is it?” Katzmann asked him, and he found himself answering yes. The rules, the thin threads of questions twisted about him, smothering his replies. He could feel the anger of frustration pulsing through him at the reiterations. Deftly the district attorney led him into the trap. “What did you mean when you said yesterday you loved a free country?” “First thing I came to this country—” “No, pardon me. What did you mean when you said yesterday you loved a free country?” “Give me a chance to explain.” “I am asking you to explain now.” Suddenly Sacco felt himself clear of the web, standing free at last with his own thoughts. The frustrations of his arrest and imprisonment, the long months in jail, the legal niceties that had sealed his mouth in the courtroom, now found violent relief in a cascade of words. As he talked on, his wiry body seemed to grow tense and his eyes snapped fire. At first some of the jurors smiled, but before he had finished everyone in the courtroom was listening intently.