One Maid's Mischief

by George Manville Fenn

Her common-sense soon told her that she had fainted entirely from fright, and that her suspicion concerning the water being drugged was ill-founded; while, on the other hand, as she gazed at Murad, her ideas gathered force, and she fully believed that her enemy had fallen into the trap that he had laid for his victim, and she wondered how long it would be before he awoke.

Helen’s suspicions were correct. Murad had had some little experience in the management and usage of the vegetable narcotics of the jungle, and believing from old experiments he had made that he could drink with impunity the clear wine from the top of the prepared vessel, he had, to disarm her suspicions partaken thereof, leaving the strong, thick portion for his victim, taking care to agitate it at the time of pouring out.

He was, however, wrong, for the narcotic he had used was a particularly strong preparation, and the clear portion at the top of the bottle contained ample quantity of the poison to overcome him in the fancied moment of his triumph, leaving him prone at his prisoner’s feet.

The dizziness passed off; but for a few minutes the girl felt that she dared not stir for fear that at the least motion on her part her persecutor might awaken; and in this spirit she remained for some time, listening to the heavy breathing, and watching intently, as if fascinated by the dark eyes that at times seemed gazing into hers.

At last, however, she gained a little more courage, and cautiously made a step or two towards the door.

Then she paused and listened, and gazed at the prostrate figure, fancying that she had detected some slight movement; but satisfying herself at last that Murad still slept, she went once more, step by step, her heart palpitating wildly, till she reached the door, when a louder inspiration than usual made her turn sick with dread, and she had to cling to the framework to keep from falling.

Finding, however, that Murad did not stir, she once more gained courage; and rousing herself for the effort, she drew aside the heavy matting curtain with cautious hand, tried the fastening of the door—growing more bold moment by moment as she strove to get it open—but all in vain. The handle would not stir, and it seemed to her that there must be a great bar across on the outside, making prisoners of both her and her captor.

It was not until the utter hopelessness of her effort dawned upon her that she gave up her task and turned to the window.

Here her efforts were equally vain, for the grill was formed of stout bamboos secured with ratan cane, bound at the intersections, and so strong, that without a powerful edge-tool even a stout-hearted man might well have given up the task in despair.

Helen’s delicate fingers, then, failed even to shake the bars; and at last, thrusting her arms through, she clasped her hands on the other side, and pressed her fevered brow to one of the openings that the soft night air might breathe upon it, and there she remained, alternately praying for help and listening to the Rajah’s heavy, stertorous breath.