CHAPTER X
“Sweet of tongue but of distant beneficence.”—Arabic Proverb.
“Zarah! It is—it is you! Then it was you!”
Helen raised herself on her elbow and stared at the bewildering picture which suddenly appeared in the doorway, blotting out the peace of the coming dawn and the far-stretching desert.
Wrapped from head to foot in a great cloak of orange satin, the Arabian stood outlined against the purple sky, with the Nubian behind her, whilst Namlah, hidden behind her pots and pans in the recess, cursed beneath her breath with all the Oriental’s volubility.
The terrified body-woman had lain flat on her face upon the steps until certain that she had not been discovered, then, as the sky had lightened, had crept like some gigantic spider up the steps and into the room where the white girl lay. She had barely had the time to whisper a warning and to run noiselessly across to the recess and hide herself when they heard her mistress’s voice speaking softly to the Nubian as they, too, mounted the steps.
Zarah did not hesitate. She determined upon a plan of action even as she caught the unconquerable look in the girl’s bewildered face.
Here was no weakling to be bullied into submission, no poor spirit to be tyrannized, no faltering feet to be whipped along a certain road; rather was it a case for duplicity and cunning, with flowers and green boughs to cover the dug pit into which, misled, betrayed, Helen Raynor would ultimately fall.
With a little cry she ran across to the divan, flung herself on her knees and seized Helen’s hand with a world of innocence and entreaty in her strange eyes.