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.