Roman Priest. Only one servant attends this man, a secretary, seated
near, who rises and explains that the present is acceptable and shall
be deposited on the floor.

The pale man at the table looks up, smiles a tired smile and murmurs
in a perfunctory way his thanks.

Appolidorus having laid his burden on the floor, kneels to untie the
ropes. The secretary explains that he need not trouble, pray bear
thanks and again thanks to his master—he need not tarry!

The dumb man on his knees neither hears nor heeds. The rug is
unrolled.

From out the roll a woman leaps lightly to her feet—a beautiful young
woman of twenty.

She stands there, poised, defiant, gazing at the pale-faced man seated
at the table.

He is not surprised—he never was. One might have supposed he received
all his visitors in this manner.

“Well?” he says in a quiet way, a half-smile parting his thin lips.

The breast of the woman heaves with tumultuous emotion—just an
instant. She speaks, and there is no tremor in her tones. Her voice is
low, smooth and scarcely audible: “I am Cleopatra.”

The man at the desk lays down his pen, leans back and gently nods his