Dimmer and dimmer grow the lights, while Richards and I listen intently at the window in the great iron door which opens onto the gallery of the north wing.
Not a sound.
The lights go entirely out, and still not a sound. Not even a cough comes from the cells to disturb the perfect silence.
We remain about half a minute in the dark, listening at the door. Then the lights begin to show color, waver, grow lighter, go out altogether for a second, and then burn with a steady brightness.
I look at Richards. He is paler than usual, but there is a bright gleam in his eyes. “I would not have believed it possible,” he says impressively, “such a thing has never happened in this prison before. The men always yell when the lights go out. In all my experience I have never known anything equal to that. I don’t understand it.
“If anyone had told me the League could do such a thing,” he continues, “I would have laughed at them. Yet there it is. I have no further doubts now about our success.”
As I leave the prison again, there ring in my ears the questions: What has happened? What does it all mean?
It means just one thing—my friend—for it is you now, you individually, to whom I am speaking; it means that these prisoners are men—real men—your brethren—and mine.
It means that as they are men they should be treated like men.
It means that if you treat them like beasts it will be hard for them to keep from degenerating into beasts. If you treat them like men you can help them to rise.