Helen’s heart sank.
She had no idea of the potency of the drug or the time required for it to take effect, but she knew the stimulating effect black coffee had on the Arabian, and how, once she had drunk a bowlful of it, she would pass a sleepless night, reading or smoking or roaming about the camp, paying surprise visits to the kennels and her people’s quarters.
She spent long precious minutes in fanning the brazier, which burned brightly behind a screen, casting fleeting glances towards the divan to see if the Arabian showed any sign of somnolence.
Zarah sat cross-legged, looking through the doorway at the stars, and showing as much sign of sleep as an angry cat. She turned and frowned at Helen when she clattered various brass pots and pans, making a great to-do, so as to waste still more precious moments over the intricate process of brewing the sickly, sweet Arabian coffee.
“Bring the coffee!” Zarah shouted suddenly, swinging her feet to the floor and half rising from the cushions.
Helen placed the brass pot, the porcelain bowl, and a smaller bowl of scented water upon the silver tray, looked over her shoulder at the Arabian and caught her breath.
Zarah yawned, widely, heavily.
The whole future depended upon the next five minutes—her future, the future of the man she loved.
Another few moments and Zarah the Cruel might be asleep. Yet what excuse could she make for wasting those precious moments? Everything was ready on the tray; it would take but a moment to cross the floor, and another five, perhaps ten, for the strong, hot, black coffee to be drunk and to react against the drug, and then farewell to all hope of escape.
“Must I come and fetch it myself?”