CHAPTER VII.
SPLENDID HEROISM.
“We will leave here at once.”
There was a sadness in Girzilla’s voice as she answered:
“And art thou tired of the houri of the cave?”
“Not tired of you, Girzilla, but I want freedom. I must search for Emin’s race.”
“Yes, yes. Fate wills it. Isis must be obeyed. Ra”—god of the sun—“ordains it. And Girzilla’s heart must be rent in twain.”
“Why so? Art thou not my guide? Shall I not restore thy family to the powerful throne?”
“I am not deceived. You of the great storehouses care not for my people.”
“But——”
“Nay, thou silly boy; the sun does not mate with darkness. Girzilla will take thee from thine enemies and will return to the tomb.”
“You are sad.”
“Did I not look upon thy face when it was sad?”
Max sat down on a broken sarcophagus, and hot, scalding tears poured from his eyes.
She had recalled to him the death of his father, nearly a week ago.
A veil of oblivion had been over his senses, and he had not been able to weep.
The tears eased his heart and soothed him more than any other thing could have done.
Girzilla, with womanly tact, withdrew and let him weep, for she knew the value of tears to the sorrow-stricken.
Truly, this girl was more than ever a mystery.
With the simple innocence of her race she looked upon herself as the consoler of the bereaved one, because she had been present when his eyes first opened to the great sorrow.
When his grief had subsided, Girzilla was transformed.
She was no longer the lively girl, but the stern guide.
“Follow me,” she said, coldly.
“Nay, stay a while.”
“Why should I? Does not the Frank desire to be free?”
“Thou knowest I do; but I have not yet explored this tomb.”
Girzilla raised herself to her full height; her eyes flashed with scorn, her little hands were clinched tightly, causing the muscles upon her arms to distend until the silver armlets must have cut into the flesh.
Her face was crimson, her body trembled with excitement.
“Explore! Yes, you Franks come to my land and carry away its images, destroy its old ruins, ransack the temples, overthrow the gods, and, not satisfied with that, dare even to desecrate the tombs!”
“You brought me here,” pleaded Max.
“I brought thee to save thy life. I brought thee, even though I knew I might die in thy place.”
“What mean you? Are you in danger?”
Girzilla laughed bitterly.
“Danger!—how silly you are!” And then, changing her manner, she added: “Have you any sense? Do you Franks ever think? I know these men who brought thee here. I know that they would take all thy gold and slit your nose—that they would slowly kill thee. Like the bird of prey looking for its victim were they. I saved thee—wilt not the vulture turn upon me? Thou knowest I shall die if I am caught.”
There was an eloquent, passionate fervor in her manner which seemed to raise her from the apathetic lazy Egyptian race and elevate her to the level of the American.
Max was about to speak, but like a queen she motioned him to be silent.
“I have been here since I was so high”—again measuring two feet from the ground. “Did I ever take the sacred bandages from the bodies of the embalmed? Never. And yet thou couldst not be alone an hour without desecrating the dead. Isis will punish thee—Osiris will return and claim his own.”
Max listened.
He was charmed.
What a splendid actress this girl would make!
What a magnificent woman she was!—and yet in years she could be only a girl.
“You speak of Isis and Osiris as though you believed in them,” Max ventured to say.
“My belief is my own. If thou wouldst escape—if thou wouldst find the son’s son of Emin, get thee ready and I will lead thee to the desert, the way that Emin traveled.”
“Lead me from here and I will ask no more.”
“Thou art a Frank! Thou askest me to risk all, and when thou art safe I may go.”
She turned away her head to hide her tears.
Going to a secluded part of the cave she took from a sarcophagus a scimiter with edge as sharp as any razor, a knife with double edge, keen as a dagger, and a small stiletto.
These she handed to Max.
“They may be useful,” she said, coldly, and prepared to leave the cave.
“Come, and quickly.”
“I have offended thee——” Max commenced, but Girzilla had scrambled through the opening, and could not hear what he was saying.
She led him across the burning sands; at every step his feet seemed to be blistering. There was no shade save from the great bowlders, and they were so hot that it was unpleasant to approach them.
On she went, keeping in advance of the American.
Not one word would she utter; and when he attempted to speak she motioned him to be silent.
It was like a new country—a land without inhabitants.
Where were they?
So near, as it seemed, to the city, and yet not a living thing to be seen.
Hour after hour they walked, blinded by the drifting sand, but never stopping.
Max would not ask Girzilla to rest, and she was too proud to suggest it.
The sun was high in the heavens.
The air seemed like the hot blast from a furnace.
Max found his tongue swelling in his mouth.
He walked along mechanically.
All control over himself appeared to be lost.
Like the fabled Wandering Jew, he continued moving, without the power to stop.
His eyes no longer saw the sand—they were hot and glassy with the glare of the sun.
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.
Her senses were leaving her, gradually her thoughts became more indistinct.
She fell forward across Max, and knew she must die.
But if it would save him, she was satisfied.
She stretched forth her hand and placed it on his forehead.
Her garment was still there, shielding his face from the sun.
“He will be saved,” she said. “Allah be praised,” she moaned.