“Completely....  And, Lord Harry, but I’m glad to see you!”

“Same here.”  Burroughs gave Billy’s arm a friendly grip and Billy spun fiercely about on him.  “Don’t you do that again!” he warned.  “Take the other one.  That’s got a—­a scratch.”

“A scratch?  One of those fellows wing you out there?  Let me have a look——­”

“No, it’s all right—­it’s nothing——­”

“Let me see, you old chump——­”

“It’s all right, I tell you.  It’s been taken care of—­it’s just a relic of Cairo.”

“Cairo!” Slowly Burroughs let fall the hand he had laid upon Billy’s arm.  “You do seem to be having a lively trip,” he commented, grinning.  “Here, hurry up, you rascals, hurry up with that big jug.”

Taking the large jar from them, he returned to the tomb, stopping abruptly at sight of Arlee’s weary abandon.  She half sat up, a frail, exhausted little figure, whose grace was strangely appealing through all her sandy dishevelment.

“Some water—­for washing,” he stammered.

“You’re very thoughtful.”

“I’ll have to beg your pardon,” he blurted, for Burroughs was no squire of dames.  “I thought you were a little girl and spoke to you as if——­”

“It’s just the hairpins that make the difference, isn’t it?” said Arlee, with a whimsical smile.  “I don’t suppose you have any of those in camp that I could borrow?”

He shook his head regretfully.  Then his brain seized upon the problem.  “Bent wires?” he suggested.  “I might try——­”

“Do,” she besought.  “I’ll be grateful forever.”

He withdrew to make the attempt, and in his place came Billy with a tray of luncheon.

“Just—­put it down,” Arlee said faintly.  “I’ll eat—­by and by.”

Worriedly Billy looked down on the girl.  Her eyes closed.  Excitement had ebbed, leaving her like some spent castaway on the shores.  He dropped on his knees beside her, dipping a clean handkerchief in the jar of cold cream.

“Just let me get this off,” he said quietly.  “You’ll feel better.”

Like a child she submitted, lying with closed eyes while with anxious care he took the sand from her delicate, burning skin.  He did the same for her listless hands; he brushed back her hair and put water on her temples; he dabbed more cold cream tenderly on the pathetic little blisters on her lips.

“I’m—­all right.”  The blue eyes looked suddenly up at him with a clear smile.  “I’m—­just resting.”

“And now you’ll eat a bit?”

Obediently she took the sandwich he made for her, and lifted her head to drink the cup of tea.

“I’m a—­nuisance,” she murmured.

“You’re a brick!” he gave back, with muffled intensity.  “You’re a perfect brick!”

Then he backed hastily out of her presence, for fear his stumbling tongue would betray him—­or his clumsy, longing hands—­or his foolish eyes.  He felt choking with the tenderness he must not express.  He ached with his Big Brother pity for her, and with his longing for her, which wasn’t in the least Big Brotherly, and with all the queer, bewildering jumble of emotion that she had power to wake in him.