Cleopatra watched her curiously. Presently she said:
"Will you let me have a sheet of your paper? I wish to write a letter to Mark Antony."
"Certainly," said Mrs. Kenyon, regarding her with pity and sympathy.
The other seated herself and wrote rapidly, in an elegant feminine hand, which surprised Mrs. Kenyon. She did not know that the poor lady had once been classical teacher in a prominent female seminary, and that it was a disappointment in love which had alienated her mind and reduced her to her present condition.
"Shall I read you the letter?" she enquired.
It was a very well written appeal to her imaginary correspondent to hasten to her and restore her to her throne.
"I thought," said Mrs. Kenyon cautiously, "that Mark Antony died many centuries ago."
"Quite a mistake, I assure you. Who could have told you such nonsense, Claudia?" demanded Cleopatra sharply.
"Of course. You will begin to say next that Cleopatra is dead."
"That is because I have remained here so long in concealment. The world supposes me dead, but the time will come when people will learn their mistake. Have you finished your letters?"
"When they send us our supper you can send them to the doctor."
"Will he be sure to post them?" asked Mrs. Kenyon, with a natural suspicion.
"Of course. Doesn't he always send my letters to Mark Antony?"
This was not as satisfactory as it might have been.
"Have you ever received any answers?" asked Mrs. Kenyon.
"Here is a letter from Mark Antony," said Cleopatra, taking a dirty and crumpled note from her pocket. "Read it, Claudia."
I have read your letter, my heart's sovereign, and I kiss the hand that wrote it. I am driving the enemy before me, and hope soon to kneel before you, crowned with laurels. Be patient, and soon expect your captive,
"Is it not a beautiful letter?" asked Cleopatra proudly.
"Yes," said Mrs. Kenyon, feeling it best to humor her delusion.
Several months passed, and Mrs. Kenyon remained in confinement. She was not badly treated, except in being vigilantly guarded, and prevented from making her escape. Dr. Fox always treated her with suavity, but she felt that though covered with velvet his hand was of iron, and that there was little to hope for from him. He never made any objection to her writing letters, but always insisted on their being handed to him.