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.