"More letters from Homestead?" I turn to the Warden.
He quickly suppresses a smile. "No, it is postmarked, Brooklyn, N. Y."
I glance at the envelope. The writing is apparently a woman's, but the chirography is smaller than the Girl's. I yearn for news of her. The letter is from Brooklyn—perhaps a Deckadresse!
"I'll take the letter, Warden."
"All right. You will open it here."
"Then I don't want it."
I start from the office; when the Warden detains me:
"Take the letter along, but within ten minutes you must return it to me. You may go now."
I hasten to the cell. If there is anything important in the letter, I shall destroy it: I owe the enemy no obligations. As with trembling hand I tear open the envelope, a paper dollar flutters to the floor. I glance at the signature, but the name is unfamiliar. Anxiously I scan the lines. An unknown sympathizer sends greetings, in the name of humanity. "I am not an Anarchist," I read, "but I wish you well. My sympathy, however, is with the man, not with the act. I cannot justify your attempt. Life, human life, especially, is sacred. None has the right to take what he cannot give."