Still he kept on, following that never-tiring figure in front of him. Suddenly his foot slipped into a little hole, and he fell. That was more eloquent than words. Girzilla was by his side in a moment. A little leather bottle she carried was unslung, and some water was poured down the youth’s throat. She had resolved not to offer her aid, but now, when he was helpless and suffering, she could not resist. She bathed his face, and fanned it so that the skin might not blister. He was unconscious. “He is dying,” she moaned. “And I cannot save him.” Her bare arms and ankles seemed impervious to the heat--she was accustomed to it. “Oh, if Jockian were but here!” she moaned; but the man she referred to was many miles away. “I will try.” The speech was in answer to her thoughts. Removing the armlets from her arms, she stooped over the prostrate form of Madcap Max, and raised him as if he were a child. Strong she undoubtedly was, but Max was heavy. She carried him a few steps. The perspiration ran in streams down her face. The muscles of her arms were strained to their utmost. She had to rest. Again she raised him, and carried him a dozen yards or so. It was but slow progress, but she knew he would die if she left him there. She tightened the girdle round her waist, and again took him in her arms. But her strength gave out. She fell with her burden on the hot sand. Exhausted herself, yet she would not give up the battle. She worked like a slave, making a hole in the sand. The blood spurted from her fingers, but she kept on until she had scraped away the sand a foot deep. Into this hole she rolled Max. The sun was pouring its hot rays with deadly vehemence, but Girzilla cared not, if Max were but safe. She looked for something to shelter him. Nothing could be seen. With splendid devotion, she took off the loose linen blouse which was the only covering of the upper part of her body, and sprinkling it well with water, laid it over the youth’s face. Her own skin, almost as fair as that of the American, was exposed to the torture of the heat. The thermometer must have registered a hundred and fifty degrees, but Girzilla merely clinched her teeth and waited. She had placed herself in a position between the sun and Max. Hour after hour this child of the desert, this magnificent heroine, shielded the American from the rays of the Egyptian sun. Her own shoulders were bare. The sun blistered her skin. A slight breeze, but as a furnace blast, swept across her, but it carried myriads of sand flies and atoms of sand with it. The flies settled on her bare shoulders; they attacked the blistered flesh. The pain must have been intense, but she never moved. Once she shrieked with agony and resolved to rise, but a look of self-denying heroism crossed her face, and she remained still. “If I move they will attack him,” she thought, and that was enough. He must be saved at all costs.