that men should be so brutal."

"Give me an instance," I said, "of something less painful; something
which may be bettered."

He smiled wanly. "All of it, Frank, all of it should be altered. There
is no spirit in a prison but hate, hate masked in degrading formalism.
They first break the will and rob you of hope, and then rule by fear.
One day a warder came into my cell.

"'Take off your boots,' he said.

"Of course I began to obey him; then I asked:

"'What is it? Why must I take off my boots?'

"He would not answer me. As soon as he had my boots, he said:

"'Come out of your cell.'

"'Why?' I asked again. I was frightened, Frank. What had I done? I could
not guess; but then I was often punished for nothing: what was it? No
answer. As soon as we were in the corridor he ordered me to stand with
my face to the wall, and went away. There I stood in my stocking feet
waiting. The cold chilled me through; I began standing first on one
foot and then on the other, racking my brains as to what they were going
to do to me, wondering why I was being punished like this, and how long
it would last; you know the thoughts fear-born that plague the mind....
After what seemed an eternity I heard him coming back. I did not dare to
move or even look. He came up to me; stopped by me for a moment; my