Cora turned and buried her face in the cushions. She realized that she had been abducted, and was being held a prisoner in this strange place. But she must—she felt she must—do as the woman told her. Just a few tears from sheer nervousness, then she would be brave.
"Don't you ever smoke?" asked the queen. "I should die or run the risk of the dogs except for my cigarettes."
"The risk——"
"Hush! Yes, they have dreadful dogs. I, too, am," she whispered, "a prisoner. I will tell you about it later."
She picked up an instrument and fingered it. It seemed like the harp, but it was not much larger than a guitar. The chords were very sweet, very deep and melodious. She was a skilled musician; even in her distress Cora could not fail to notice that.
"I haven't any new music," said the queen. "They promised to fetch me some, but this trouble has kept the whole band busy. Now, how do you like this?" She swept her white fingers over the strings like some fairy playing with a wind-harp. "That is my favorite composition."
"Do you compose?"
"Oh, yes, it gives me something to do, and I never could endure painting or sewing, so I work out pretty tunes and put them on paper. Sometimes they send them to the printers for me."
"Do you never leave here? Am I in America?" asked Cora.
"Bless you, yes, you are in America; but no, to the other question. I have never left this house or the grounds since I came to America."