Despite our refusal to grant permission to do the deed, she went on with it.  Now Anna Roylston was a fascinating woman.  All she had to do was to beckon a man to her.  She broke the hearts of scores of our young comrades, and scores of others she captured, and by their heart-strings led into our organization.  Yet she steadfastly refused to marry.  She dearly loved children, but she held that a child of her own would claim her from the Cause, and that it was the Cause to which her life was devoted.

It was an easy task for Anna Roylston to win Timothy Donnelly.  Her conscience did not trouble her, for at that very time occurred the Nashville Massacre, when the Mercenaries, Donnelly in command, literally murdered eight hundred weavers of that city.  But she did not kill Donnelly.  She turned him over, a prisoner, to the ’Frisco Reds.  This happened only last year, and now she had been renamed.  The revolutionists everywhere are calling her the “Red Virgin."*

* It was not until the Second Revolt was crushed, that the ’Frisco Reds flourished again.  And for two generations the Group flourished.  Then an agent of the Iron Heel managed to become a member, penetrated all its secrets, and brought about its total annihilation.  This occurred in 2002 A.D.  The members were executed one at a time, at intervals of three weeks, and their bodies exposed in the labor-ghetto of San Francisco.

Colonel Ingram and Colonel Van Gilbert are two more familiar figures that I was later to encounter.  Colonel Ingram rose high in the Oligarchy and became Minister to Germany.  He was cordially detested by the proletariat of both countries.  It was in Berlin that I met him, where, as an accredited international spy of the Iron Heel, I was received by him and afforded much assistance.  Incidentally, I may state that in my dual role I managed a few important things for the Revolution.

Colonel Van Gilbert became known as “Snarling” Van Gilbert.  His important part was played in drafting the new code after the Chicago Commune.  But before that, as trial judge, he had earned sentence of death by his fiendish malignancy.  I was one of those that tried him and passed sentence upon him.  Anna Roylston carried out the execution.

Still another figure arises out of the old life—­Jackson’s lawyer.  Least of all would I have expected again to meet this man, Joseph Hurd.  It was a strange meeting.  Late at night, two years after the Chicago Commune, Ernest and I arrived together at the Benton Harbor refuge.  This was in Michigan, across the lake from Chicago.  We arrived just at the conclusion of the trial of a spy.  Sentence of death had been passed, and he was being led away.  Such was the scene as we came upon it.  The next moment the wretched man had wrenched free from his captors and flung himself at my feet, his arms clutching me about the knees in a vicelike grip as he prayed in a frenzy for mercy.  As he turned his agonized face up