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Discovering Diverse Content Through
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 Long illness had wasted his muscular frame almost to a skeleton.
His head was a grinning skull with hairy parchment stretched so
tightly over its ridges and hollows, they threatened to break through.
His body and limbs were little more than hide and bone. He was
dead to look upon. The life-spark glowed feebly; but it burned. The
fever had now left him, permitting his strength to return and repair
the ravages of disease. His mind ceased to wander. It rejoined the
body newly arisen from the grave and both followed the thread of
life anew.
The Giant kept his patient supplied with food and water and
covered him at night with the hyena robe. It was this latter that
brought a first message from the forgotten past. One morning as Pic
raised himself on one elbow to take his fare, his eyes fell upon the
skin under which he lay. A strange look came over his face as he ran
his fingers through the long thick fur.
“This skin?” he asked. “How came it here?”
“It came with you,” was the answer. “You wore it.”
“Yes, I remember now,” muttered Pic. “I wore it to keep warm.
The air was cold. I do not feel cold now.”
“That was long ago,” said the Giant. “The snow and ice are gone.
The birds have returned and all creatures have crawled from their
holes. Buds and green leaves brighten every bush and tree. Until
their coming, you lay as one dead. This is the first time you have
awakened since my club crashed down upon your skull——”
“You struck me?” Pic cried. “Then it was you who crept upon me
from behind—the shadow on the wall.”
“Yes it was I.” The Giant pointed to an object on the cave floor, a
bludgeon of seasoned oak, the length and thickness of his arm. “The
one blow failed to kill. I withheld the second and brought you back
to life instead.”
“Why? Men are none too gentle with those who intrude upon
them, I know.”
 “Nor do men of this day carry great hand-stones,” the Giant
replied. “But for it, your bones would now be whitening at the
bottom of the gorge. Who are you—a boy who comes upon me as
though from the sky bearing the blade of a race long dead—the
Terrace Men—?”
“Terrace Men? Agh-h-h!” Pic’s eyes were starting from his head.
His jaw dropped until the chin touched his breast. A lump arose in
his throat. He could say no more.
“Yes, the Terrace Man’s hand-stone,” said the Giant. “The one you
bore bound to a wooden haft. Wait and I will fetch it. When you see,
you will remember.”
He entered the cave and returned in a few moments with a great
almond-shaped flint of lustrous grey—the blade of Ach Eul still
bound to its long wooden handle with strips of hide. He laid it in the
Ape Boy’s trembling hands.
“Agh; I know it now—my ax, my father’s ax made by a man of the
River Terraces.” Pic clasped the weapon to his breast while the Giant
looked curiously on. In a moment he turned to his companion with a
puzzled look upon his face.
“Hand-stone; hand-stone?” he repeated several times. “I do not
understand. Does the flint please you—as it pleases me? You spoke
of Terrace Men. What do you know of them?”
“I know of a race long dead,” the Giant replied in a voice so deep
and hollow, it seemed to arise from the earth. “A race of mighty men
who roamed along the river banks; who fought and hunted in the
warm sunlight and slept beneath the blue sky and twinkling stars.
They vied with the Mammoth, the Rhinoceros——”
“Agh! I am listening,” Pic muttered hoarsely. “Go on.”
“And other beasts,” the Giant continued. “Then”—his voice sank
almost to a whisper—“the Storm Wind descended upon them from
the north. They were mighty men—the People of the Terraces—but
even their strength could not match that of the Storm Wind. One by
one they died of cold, hunger and disease. Wild beasts set upon
them in their weakness. Those who survived, fled to the shelter of
caves—gloomy holes where many sickened and died. The others lost
all remembrance of things. They sat still and stared and snapped like
wolves—and they died too. All were gone—all but one who yet lives;
here alone in a cave high above the gorge——”
“You—a Terrace Man?” cried Pic as he gazed up awe-stricken into
the Giant’s face. “Arrah, I have found you now: big, strong Man of
the Terraces, maker of wonderful flints. I have searched the world
for you and now I will learn the secret of how flints like this were
made.”
The Ape Boy was now soaring in the clouds. His eyes shone with
the zeal of a fanatic, as every moment he took in more inspiration
from the ax of Ach Eul which he held closely to his breast. The Giant
was speechless with amazement. He could only listen as Pic rambled
on:
“You see how large and shapely it is; the same on both edges—on
both surfaces. Such work was not done entirely with the hammer-
stone. Some other tool was used after the blank was hewn. See
where the tiny chips were removed to form the point and edges.
Soon I will know how they were struck off and the flint thinned
down, when a blow however slight might break and spoil it.”
The Giant shook his head vigorously. “You mistake,” he said. “I
know nothing of flint-working nor did any others of my tribe. We
carried hand-stones—the ones our fathers’ fathers made long before
my time. They were poignards—axes without handles. They and
clubs were our weapons; but the blades were lost or broken one by
one and none knew how to replace them. The hand-stone has long
passed away. Those are dead who can tell of its making. I never
knew. I do not know now.”
Pic’s heart sank. His head fell forward upon his breast. “And so I
will never know. What is left, worth living for—to the miserable Ape
Boy hiding in a man’s skin? Nothing; not even the friends you spoke
of.”
“Friends?” the Giant exclaimed. “I spoke of none. Who were
they?”
Pic’s head sank yet lower. His eyes stared vacantly at his
companion’s feet.
“The Hairy Mammoth and Woolly Rhinoceros,” he replied.
 XIV

F
or moments which seemed hours, Pic remained silent, staring
at the ground; and in those few moments, his remembrance of
past events drifted slowly back; his alliance with the Mammoth
and Rhinoceros, his travels and adventures with those wonderful
beasts and the various incidents leading up to his mishap in the
Giant’s stronghold.
He had been very ill, his mind a blank and his body all but
consumed by wasting fever. Now he was on the mend, his brain
cleared; but the Mammoth and Rhinoceros were gone—forever.
“You spoke of the Mammoth and Rhinoceros.” The Giant was
regarding him with amazement. “Those two are animals, not men.
No man has animals for his friends. You do not remember. Your head
is not yet well.”
“You are mistaken,” Pic replied with an earnestness that impressed
the other deeply. “All is well here;” he pointed to his forehead. “I
have been very ill, I know. Once I remembered nothing; but now
everything is clear. The Mammoth and Rhinoceros were my friends,
—the best I ever had—but now they have gone away; where,
nobody knows.”
The Giant gulped. Never had he heard the like. Here was a man
who chose to debase himself by associating with inferior creatures
and was not ashamed to confess it. Preposterous! He found it
difficult to hold his temper.
“What matters it if a mammoth and rhinoceros are friends or not?”
he growled. “But any man who chooses to associate with them is no
better than they—a beast.”
“But I am alone,” said Pic. “That is why I chose the Mammoth and
Rhinoceros——”
 “Quite right. Men cannot live alone either,” the Giant interrupted.
“It destroys something here;” he touched a finger to his forehead
—“Return to your own people before it is too late.”
“But I am an outcast, a renegade from my tribe and am not
permitted to return,” said Pic, sobered by the other’s earnestness. “I
was lonely. I met the Mammoth and Rhinoceros. They were
wonderful creatures. We had many adventures. They saved my life
and I saved theirs. Men never did as well for each other. I will give
up my friends for no man.”
A low rumble sounded in the distance. The Giant looked up with a
start and stared across the gorge—at a mass of dark clouds slowly
rising above the horizon. His eyes shone with a strange light. He
shivered and trembled like a frightened child. Pic began to
understand. The Giant was afraid of the thunder-clouds. All men
feared thunder and lightning.
“It makes him nervous and ill-tempered,” thought Pic. “When the
clouds pass, he will be himself again.”
Suddenly the Giant sprang to his feet and glanced behind him,
listening attentively and sniffing as animals do when they strive to
catch the scent. His club lay on the cave floor. With the stealth of a
panther, he glided to the weapon, seized it and edged nearer to the
rear wall. Pic waited in breathless suspense. He could now barely
discern the Giant’s dark figure standing with bludgeon held across
his shoulders as though awaiting the attack of some unknown
enemy.
All was as quiet as death. While Pic looked on, scarcely daring to
breathe, he heard a faint scratching sound. It came from the rear
wall, low and muffled as though originating in the heart of the rock.
Gradually it grew louder, more distinct and with it, the labored
breathing of some living thing. The Giant must have heard the
sounds but he made no sign, only stood like a stone image with
weapon held ready—and waiting. Pic raised his ax and kept his eyes
and ears open for something which might break the spell and
explain the scene before him.
Suddenly a loud scuffling sounded from the darkness; a fearful
snarling and growling and a gaunt, shaggy figure bounded to the
entrance. The bludgeon descended with a crash and a great wolf fell
sprawling on the ledge. Like a flash, the Giant dropped his club and
dashed upon the struggling brute. It snapped and snarled horribly as
he seized it by the scruff of the neck with his bare hands. In a
twinkle the wretch was raised aloft like a kitten. One mighty heave;
and it whirled high into space, then descended with a splash into the
river below.
“A wonderful toss,” muttered Pic as the brute went spinning aloft;
and he gazed in awe upon the Giant who now stood watching him
with arms folded across his broad chest.
“Cave-wolf?” asked Pic. It seemed an absurd question, but he
could think of nothing else to say.
“Ugh; a cave-wolf,” growled the other. “I heard him coming and
was prepared to strike. Thus I kill all who intrude in my cave.” He
glared at Pic so savagely, the youth shrank back alarmed; and yet
his fear failed to silence the question that arose involuntarily to his
lips:
“The wolf came from the cave. How did he get in?”
Without replying the Giant abruptly left the cave and began to
ascend the cliffs where, on one side of the cave-mouth, the steep
wall was broken by corners and crevices. This was the Giant’s
stairway, his means of ascending from the grotto to the plateau
above.
Pic followed and looked on while his surly host clambered up the
rock-ladder and disappeared over the top. Once alone, he squatted
upon the cave threshold to think over the recent happenings and
make his plans.
 “I will leave with the next sunrise,” he determined; and as he
made this decision, he remembered the Giant’s warning: “Return to
your people before it is too late.” He felt lonely and now that the
Mammoth and Rhinoceros were gone he longed for a glimpse of his
home on the Rock of Moustier. “Perhaps you and your people have
misunderstood each other,” a low voice within him said; but the truth
was he felt homesick and now longed for human companionship.
The Giant’s latest mood inspired his mistrust. In his weakened
condition, Pic fully realized his own helplessness, even when armed
with his wonderful flint-ax, the blade of Ach Eul.
As he looked upon it, he felt that it had brought him nothing but
trouble. His search had ended in failure. True, he had at last found a
Terrace Man, only to learn that the latter knew nothing of what he
sought—the art of retouching hammered flakes. That art would
never again see the light and with that hope gone, his ambition was
gone with it. His efforts at flint-making would end now and for all
time. He would return to his people—to be a hunter and warrior and
live as a man should. The finger of scorn would no longer point at
him, the Ape Boy—the little beast without a tail, hiding in a man’s
skin. He would be known as Pic, leader of men, enemy of beasts;
the Mammoth and Woolly Rhinoceros alone excepted. He glowed, he
smiled; for on the morrow he would be on his way—back to his
people and the Valley of the Vézère.
A dull, rumbling noise overhead disturbed Pic’s reverie. He looked
up startled and saw that the sky had become heavily overcast.
Black, threatening clouds were slowly closing the last gap of blue in
the southwest quarter. He arose to his feet and entered the cave to
find refuge from the storm-clouds that threatened at any moment to
pour down their wrath upon his head.
The rumbling sounded again. It was as though some savage beast
were growling in the sky. Pic peered into the darkness of the cavern.
The wolf had sprung from there—from where? Pic had never
examined the cave interior. His whole interest had been in sunshine
and fresh air. But the wolf had come from it and others might do the
same. For some unknown reason, the Giant had resented any
questioning on the subject. The mystery could be investigated
during his absence—now.
After a moment’s wait to accustom his eyes to the darkness, Pic
groped his way to the rear wall. As his hands glided along the
clammy rock, it suddenly sank into empty space; a large hole partly
covered with a limestone slab and large enough to admit a man’s
head and shoulders. He was about to examine further when he
heard a low scraping noise—rustling—as of something moving in the
heart of the rock. “Another wolf;” he smiled grimly and raised his ax
all prepared to strike—just as the Giant had struck. The noise grew
louder,—scraping, scratching, growls and mutterings. Pic’s hair stood
on end. His knees trembled. He bent down and hastily replaced the
stone slab across the opening; then tip-toed to a far corner of the
cave—his corner and bed of leaves. For an instant, the latter rustled
noisily as he made a nest for himself, then all was quiet there except
for loud breathing as of one who sleeps.
His face was turned towards the crack in the rear wall. One eye
watched the limestone slab through half-closed lids. It saw the stone
thrust gently aside. A head appeared in the opening. Two eyes—fire-
specks in the center of great black blotches—turned this way and
that; towards the cave entrance, the outside ledge and lastly the
interior of the cave itself. In a moment, they alighted upon the figure
lying on the bed of leaves. Pic’s eyes were closed. To all
appearances, he was sound asleep. The head, then shoulders and
body drew themselves clear of the dark hole and re-set the stone in
place. This done, the newcomer glided to the far corner of the cave
and stood over the figure huddled in the nest of leaves.
For Pic, this was a terrible moment. He breathed heavily—so
heavily and his heart pounded so loudly against his ribs, he dreaded
less they arouse suspicions as to the soundness of his slumber. Great
was his relief when he heard the intruder turn away towards the
entrance. He opened one eye and saw a huge, dark figure standing
in the cave-mouth, peering up at the sky. The figure was the Giant
of the Neander Gorge.
The sleeper stirred, yawned audibly and rubbed his eyes,
whereupon the Giant looked around, growled and straightway
resumed his sky-gazing. Pic sat up; but he made no effort to leave
his nest. He was wondering how he could leave the grotto and reach
the stairway leading to the plateau above without being observed.
His host blocked the exit. No longer did he think to withhold his
departure until morning. His plans were laid to leave at the earliest
possible moment.
He shuddered, for just then the Giant whined as though in fear
and shrank back within the cave. Pic glanced through the entrance
into the world outside. The clouds no longer moved. They hung so
thick and low, it seemed as though any moment, they might fall and
fill the gorge. The air was warm and stifling beneath the black pall
overhead. It was not air; only a dark greenish haze occasionally
lighted by a momentary radiance. The storm was at hand. All grew
dark. Pic shut his eyes and tried to forget.
A tremendous crash and a flood of dazzling light penetrated the
innermost recesses of the cave. With a cry of terror, Pic looked wildly
about him. His eyes were half-blinded by a succession of brilliant
flares which momentarily lighted up the cave-mouth and platform
outside. The flares alternated with thunderous roars which made the
rock-roof tremble above his head. Outside, the rain descended in
torrents. The wind swept in blind fury across the gorge—a black,
howling madness, battering against the southern limestone wall.
As he cowered trembling in his corner, a low, beast-like snarl fell
upon his ears—more menacing, more terrifying than the roaring
tempest. Suddenly a flash of light revealed a sight that made his hair
stand on end. The staring eyes, bared teeth and distorted features
of a fiend were seared upon his brain as with a red-hot iron.
“Men cannot live alone;” Pic remembered his companion’s recent
warning; and now he understood. No human being could long
endure the companionship of none but his own thoughts, the gloom
of a cave and the cold and darkness of winter, when even the sight
of his own shadow was denied him. The Neander Giant had gone
mad.
Pic’s blood ran cold. He had no fear of the storm now. He feared
nothing but the fiend beside him. Not even the Cave Lion could have
inspired a fraction of the terror he felt at that one glimpse of the
madman’s distorted face. The Giant had warned him to leave. He
must go now—at once.
He raised himself clear of his nest and felt about for his ax. His
hand found it and gripped the haft. Slowly and without a sound, he
glided towards the cave-mouth. Another moment and he would have
turned the corner to safety when suddenly a hand touched his
shoulder—an iron hand which silently bade him advance no farther.
He stopped. Cold sweat broke out all over his body. He would have
shrieked but his throat could give forth no sound. Again he tried to
pass; but the hand and arm behind it were like an iron beam which
held him back. He shrank into the cave once more and the pressure
was released. No words were spoken—only low growls and beast-
like snarls. The lightning flashes increased in frequency and force.
They revealed the mad Giant standing guard in the entrance. Pic
gripped his ax with a desperate fleeting notion of closing in and
attempting to match the other’s strength with his blade of Ach Eul;
but another glimpse of the diabolical face and he faltered. Such an
idea were madness itself.
And then—he suddenly bethought himself of the opening behind
the slab in the rear wall. It was a secret passage, a tunnel
communicating with the outside world—liberty. The Wolf had come
from there; the Giant too. His despair changed to hope. He retreated
to the depths of the cave. It was but the work of a moment to find
the limestone panel and push it noiselessly aside. He dropped flat on
his belly and thrust his head and shoulders into the opening. The
cold water streamed through and almost overwhelmed him, but he
paid no heed. He followed with his body, his legs, his feet; and the
cave with its mad occupant was left behind.
The passage inclined upwards. It was a crack or seam in the rock,
smoothed and enlarged by the water that had trickled through it for
untold centuries. He could progress but slowly as he lay flat on his
chest and stomach and pushed himself along with his feet and
hands. The passage-way seemed endless but he kept on upward as
fast as he could crawl. And now he was nearing his journey’s end.
Every moment the path ahead was illuminated by flashes of
reflected light. He could faintly distinguish a roaring above his head
as though the thunder was welcoming his escape from the Giant’s
wrath. With a supreme effort he reached the outlet; then shrank
back appalled as his head encountered the fury of the storm.
For an instant, he looked on, dismayed. The end of all things,
appeared at hand; then the remembrance of the cave and its mad
occupant urged him to seek the open—the lesser evil. Once more he
pushed his head through the hole. He was about to draw himself
clear when something closed on one ankle with an iron grip. A great
hand held him fast. It was as though he were chained to the rock.
He heard no sound; but with that grip upon his foot, his last chance
had passed. In a panic of fear, he turned and struck behind him with
his ax. A blood-curdling yell; and the crushing hold on his ankle
relaxed. With a bound, he hurled himself clear of the opening,
stumbled and fell heavily upon his back. A huge head sprang up
behind him. A pair of hands with fingers spread and curled like
eagle’s claws, stretched over the prostrate figure. Pic groaned and
shut his eyes as the cruel talons descended to clutch his throat.
A deafening crash; a blot of dazzling flame shot down like a
meteor from the heavens, striking the madman in the very midst of
his spring. A second flash showed his great head and shoulders
thrown back across the opening. Both arms were raised aloft and
the look on his face was ghastly. Flare after flare revealed him
sinking lower and lower, his eyes protruding in a hideous death-stare
as though in hatred of the thunderbolt that had cheated him of his
prey. Slowly he slid back into the fissure while Pic looked on in
fascinated horror until the now lifeless body disappeared from sight.
For an instant, the darkness remained unbroken; then a
momentary gleam disclosed a scene of wild desolation along the
storm-swept heights overlooking the Neander Gorge. It lighted up
the now empty mouth of the fissure and the figure of a man fast
disappearing in the blinding fury of the tempest.
 XV

T
he break of winter had just begun to heal the frost-scars and
revive the blighted vegetation of the Vézère. The broad table-
lands, crags and meadows were already casting their withered
coats and preparing to don the green garb of spring, a welcome
change after the long season of cold withering death.
A solitary figure was making its way across the meadows towards
the Vézère river. It was the figure of a man bearing over one
shoulder a flint-ax—a keen blade of lustrous grey bound to a stout
wooden shaft. Pic the Ape Boy, grown to manhood after two years of
travel and adventure in the north, was nearing his home at last.
As he reached the river and halted to gaze at the familiar scenes
about him, he became imbued with the spirit of gladness which
shone from every inanimate object, even the ordinarily cold
limestone cliffs. The warm sunlight glare reflected from rock and
river, diffused through his brain and body a sense of lazy comfort. It
cast over him a spell too subtle to resist. With a sigh of content, he
stretched himself full-length upon the grass near the river bank and
gazed abstractedly at the ripples and whirling eddies as they sped
past to mingle with the waters of the Dordogne. By degrees, his
mind wandered, his eyes closed and his thoughts relapsed into
reveries, then fanciful visions.
He was alone, high upon a rock, squatting before his fire, gazing
through the smoke-wreaths. Slowly the latter gathered in volume
until they were expanded into a pair of gigantic figures—a mammoth
and rhinoceros. Other forms followed one after another—four-footed
beasts of every shape and kind until a mighty throng was assembled
about him, pressing threateningly forward. He turned to flee into his
cave but it had disappeared. In its place, stood the Hairy Mammoth
and Woolly Rhinoceros, their faces stern and filled with deep
reproach. He averted his gaze expecting to encounter the menacing
beast-throng; but all had vanished. In their stead, a pair of eyes
flashing like red-hot coals pierced him through and through. His
brain burned as the mad stare was directed upon him from two
cavernous sockets surmounted by great bone-ridges. A sloping
forehead took shape above the eyes; an arched nose, protruding
muzzle and chinless jaw below. The face became a head mounted
on bull-neck and massive shoulders.
“Who are you and why do you come here?” Pic boldly demanded;
but cold sweat dampened his forehead and he cowered in terror, for
the head was drawing nearer and nearer, muttering low growls and
gnashing its teeth the while.
“Who am I? I was a man before I became mad. See me now. Men
cannot live alone nor can they live with animals. You have done
both. The Ape Boy will be the same as I unless”—and the voice grew
deep and solemn—“he takes heed before it is too late.”
Pic could now feel the hot breath of the Neander Giant. He
endeavored to rise and flee but his muscles would not respond. He
averted his face and strove to call for aid; but his tongue was numb
and no sound came.
The rocks seemed to rise and float away. He heard voices; then a
sense of earthly things crept over him, with a change from gloom to
light. He opened his eyes and saw not one but a score of faces
scowling fiercely upon him. With a startled exclamation, he strove to
rise but found himself held fast in the grip of many hands.
“Who are you? From where do you come?” demanded a red-eyed
fellow as he threatened Pic with his upraised ax.
Overwhelmed by his rude awakening, Pic was slow to respond. A
violent kick in the side aroused him from his stupor.
“I am a man like yourself,” he hastened to reply. “Back all of you
and let me rise. I have just returned. My cave is in the high rock
overlooking the valley;” and he pointed in the direction of Moustier.
 Again he attempted to stand but the hands still held him fast. The
man who had first spoken, shook his ax and snarled angrily:
“You lie; the Cave Lion lives there as we all know.” He threw back
his arms and displayed a hideous breast-scar not entirely healed.
“Behold his work! The bones of him who fared worse are scattered
upon the ledge;” and he made a horrid grimace as though not at all
pleased at the recollection.
Pic saw and hesitated. In the face of such evidence, it seemed a
waste of words to parley with his captors; nevertheless he made the
attempt.
“Grun Waugh may be there now,” he snarled; “but the cave is
mine. Loosen my hands, so that I may visit the Rock and drive the
beast from his den.”
At this brazen insolence, every face became a picture of
amazement, changing to furious rage as its significance dawned
upon all. The fierce looks and growls of the Cave-men boded ill for
Pic who now realized that his words were neither wise nor well-
chosen. He glanced curiously from one to another. In them, he
recognized human beings of his own tribe; natives of the lower
Vézère Valley, the same as he. He noted their hollow eyes, sunken
cheeks and emaciated forms. He had seen such things before; the
results of cold, hunger and disease and a spring season of fruitless
hunting. Famine had hardened every ridge and furrow and made
hideous the features of these famished men. To them, strangers
were unwelcome at best; but the sight of the newcomer’s well-
rounded figure was more than these hungry mortals could endure.
One of the band bent down and smote Pic’s cheek with his open
palm.
“So we have a lion-tamer come amongst us,” he sneered. “We,
your good friends will accompany you to the Rock and learn how
cave-lions are managed.”
“To the Rock with him,” cried a voice. “The braggart shall furnish
sport for us and the Lion both, provided the beast is at home and
ready for another meal.”
Pic was jerked roughly to his feet—a vigorous young giant
standing amidst an emaciated horde. His ax—which until this
moment had escaped the notice of his captors—was now exposed to
view. The man who had struck him, bent low to secure the weapon.
As his eyes caught the great blade’s lustrous gleam, he jumped back
with an astonished yell:
“The flint! Arrah! Come all and see.”
Every pair of eyes followed the outstretched arm and hand
pointing to earth—at the blade of Ach Eul lying upon the ground.
A great commotion followed as the warriors surged around their
captive for a closer view of the wonderful flint. In the excitement, Pic
was left the freedom of his limbs. He was preparing for a bold dash
to freedom when suddenly a voice bellowed from the outskirts of the
group: “Stand back, crow’s meat;” and a burly figure forced its way
toward the prisoner, thrusting aside those in front of him with no
gentle hand.
All fell back and made room to let him pass. From the manner in
which they submitted to his rude buffeting, Pic knew that the chief
of the band was approaching. The burly newcomer was a man of
broad shoulder and powerful limb. In spite of his famished condition,
his arm and body muscles bulged through their drawn skin-covering
and concealed all but the joints of his big-boned frame. As he
glanced curiously at Pic, then at the ax lying upon the ground, a look
of astonishment came over his face. He bent low and clutched the
wooden haft.
“None can mistake this blade,” he muttered. “How came it here?”
He turned to his prisoner. “Who are you?” he roared. “Common
beasts do not go about alone, bearing chieftains’ blades. How did
you come by this flint? Quick, answer before I stir your tongue with
a burning brand.”
“I am not a chieftain,” Pic protested loudly. “But the ax is mine;
rightly won and mine to hold and fight for if need be;” then as low
growls greeted these bold words, his voice softened and became
appealing. “Hear me, you warriors,” he pleaded, glancing from one
face to another. “For three long winters, have I lived alone with the
finger of scorn pointing at me—one who would neither hunt nor
fight. All men are warriors; some are flint-workers but not one can
make flints as they should be made. I have striven to be that one. I
have searched in vain for what would make me that one; and now I
know it cannot be. No longer will I live alone nor with”—he checked
himself and went on—“Now I have returned to live as a man should.
My arm is strong, seasoned for the hunt and prepared to cross axes
with any man. The Ape Boy has passed away. Pic the——”
He got no farther. A bedlam of howls and yells rent the air:
“Death to the renegade! Arrah! Burn the Ape Boy! To the Rock; to
the Cave Lion with him! Kill; kill!” The fierce Cave-men surged about
him so furiously that no ax could be brought to bear, so much were
one and all of them hampered by the eagerness of their fellows.
Above the tumult now thundered the chieftain’s loud command:
“Silence! Stand back, all of you,” and as the howls subsided into
snarls at his bidding, he stepped forward and shook his ax-blade in
Pic’s face.
“Ape Boy? Agh-h! Now we know you—friend of beasts, enemy of
men. The Cave Lion is too gentle for such as you. Back to the shelter
with him,” he roared. “No beast shall cheat the stomachs of starving
men.”
In a moment, Pic was overpowered and borne to the ground.
While half a dozen of his captors held him down and pinioned his
arms behind him, others bound his wrists together with strips of
hide. When he was thus securely trussed, the Cave-men helped him
to his feet; and then, with their captive in the center, and the blade
of Ach Eul borne triumphantly on the burly chieftain’s shoulders,
they began their march across the meadows towards the
overhanging cliffs bordering the valley.
 XVI

T
he valley of the Vézère was a thick rock-bed, through which
the river had—in remote ages—carved a deep channel with
almost vertical sides. In time, the course of the stream
became diverted at intervals throughout its length. In places the
limestone walls fell in or weathered away, leaving broad rock-floors
only a few feet above the normal level of the stream. During the
melting and rainy seasons, these low areas were subject to
intermittent flooding as the Vézère overflowed its banks. This
irrigation, further aided by deposition of silt or river mud, gradually
transformed the bare rock-floors into fertile meadows, covered—
even during the cold season—with fresh, sweet grass.
On the western side of the Vézère River, several miles above its
junction with the Dordogne, one of these low, grass-covered areas
extended some three miles inland, then terminated abruptly in lofty
limestone cliffs. The latter marked the valley border, a step from
river lowland to high plateau. A northwestern tributary of the Vézère
formed the meadow’s northern boundary.
This broad lowland was a region much frequented by Mousterian
Cave-men, particularly that portion of it lying directly beneath the
limestone cliffs. In one place, the massive rock-wall was deeply
undercut so that the cliff-face rose not straight upward, but inclined
outward, thereby forming an overhanging shelf or canopy protecting
the ground directly under it.
Such was the Ferrassie Rock-shelter, summer home and metropolis
of the Vézère Cave-folk. It was a human habitation, an open-air
camp where men gathered each spring to enjoy the bright, warm
sunlight after a winter season of confinement in damp and gloomy
caves.
 Close to the base of the cliffs and shielded from wind and rain by
the overhanging rock, burned a great fire of dead branches and
unhewn logs. The smoke therefrom curled outward and upward,
clinging closely to the shelving wall. The latter served as a broad
chimney enclosed only on one side. The wall was stained greasy
black, changing to grey with increased height, indicating that the
smoke had followed the same course for an extended period of time.
Arranged in a semi-circle about the fire and with their feet almost
in the hot ashes, squatted ten or more grizzled men and women. All
sat silent and motionless, gazing into the smoke-wreaths which
curled up the overhanging wall. They stared with dull, unseeing
eyes, for their minds had grown callous with sorrow and suffering.
For them, the joys of life had passed. They were beings, prematurely
aged who should have been but in their prime. Their bodies were
little more than skin and bone—skeletons clothed in hairy hide, and
their faces were stamped with the symbol of death—a dark patch in
each hollow parchment cheek. Each drawn face and emaciated body
bore the unmistakable signs of famine and disease—hunger-marks—
which made those who wore them, hideous in face and form.
On the outside of the group squatting about the fire and beyond
the cliff overhang, six or seven younger people, all women, sat,
reclined or lay full length about a limestone block. This block lay
deeply embedded in the soil. Its exposed part formed a table with a
level top about one foot high and a square yard in area. Its surface
was scratched and worn. It was a butcher-block where the Cave-
men were wont to dismember venison, beef or other game for
convenience of handling before subjecting the raw chunks to fire
treatment. It served also as an anvil where unusually tough flesh of
aged buck, steer or other antiquary could be hammered and
softened when no better offered. Lastly, the limb bones could be laid
upon the flat stone surface and split open, thereby exposing the
marrow within. Cave-men were ever partial to marrow bones and so
the butcher-block bore the marks of long hard usage.
 It was immaculate, smooth and polished as though freshly
scrubbed, a surprising condition considering that cave-men were
none too particular as regards their personal habits. But necessity
rather than scruple had driven these hungry folk to seek out and
consume every scrap of fat or flesh even to the last dried shred. The
surface of the butcher-block was licked, gnawed, bitten until no
trace of refuse remained, not even the grease veneer nor inlay of
brown dried blood.
Now that spring has come at last, the Cave-folk had crawled from
their holes to gather hope and strength from the fresh air and the
sun’s warm rays. Through the long dreary winter they had remained
underground, venturing forth at rare intervals to replenish their
diminishing food-supply. Half clad in hide wrappings and with fires
continually burning near the entrance of their dwellings, they had
huddled together awaiting the return of mild weather which many
would never see again. And finally from the rock-holes where they
had so long lain, ghostly relics of once powerful men and women
had crawled to gaze again upon the sun and feel its warmth beneath
the Ferrassie cliffs. The warriors staggered out to the meadows and
sought their next meal with ax, dart and throwing-stone, leaving the
old people and women behind to await the fruits of the first hunting.
A laughing bark sounded from the outskirts of the camp. Wolves
and hyenas prowled where bones and scraps of meat were
frequently cast out as refuse or where bodies of men were
conveniently placed to be cared for by these ghoulish undertakers,
after the fashion of Mousterian funerals.
The bark—a mere nothing in itself—signalled the approach of a
band of figures coming across the meadows. The figures were those
of men, bearing darts and flint-axes in their hands. In a moment,
they were espied by the women who leaped to their feet dancing
and shouting: “Here they come! The hunters are returning. What do
they bring with them to fill our stomachs?” Those about the fire left
their comfortable positions to join in welcoming the newcomers and
all hobbled forth, a procession of living skeletons to meet those who
stood between them and starvation.
As they glanced wildly from man to man and saw no trace of beef
or venison, they gave vent to their bitter disappointment in loud
wails—the cries of hunger unappeased. The hunters had returned
empty-handed. One of the women, a scrawny old hag, whose eyes
protruded with the stare of madness, pushed her way into the group
of men, examining each one closely to assure herself that none bore
food of any kind. From the way all made room and the rude
deference shown her, it was evident that she was a privileged
character—a creature who inspired the Cave-men’s awe. The burly
Mousterian leader sought to avoid her but she stood in his path and
blocked the way.
“No meat?” she whined. “No beef; no venison; not even a rabbit
or squirrel?”
The chieftain only shook his head and growled. The old woman
was about to make a sneering remark when she caught sight of a
figure in the center of the group—a young man of bold mien and
powerful build. His hands were held behind him but he bore no
weapons. The hag singled him out, elbowing her way through the
throng until she stood before him.
“Whom have we here?” she demanded. “Where can men live and
keep themselves so well-fed and strong? Does he come to tell us of
the good hunting that has put such meat upon his bones?”
“That meat will soon come off,” the chieftain grunted. “Your eyes
grow dull, mother or you would remember your good friends. Look
closer and see if he does not resemble one of our young men—one
who fancies the beasts more than ourselves. He has changed much
in several seasons but we, who once knew him, were quick to
recognize him.”
“The Ape Boy!” cried the old hag. “I did not know him at first! he
has grown so big and strong.” At that moment she perceived the
thong which bound the captive’s wrists. Her features assumed an
expression of savage cunning. She leered in his face, even as she
rubbed one hand upon the other and chuckled to herself:
“And so my young men have not returned empty-handed, after all.
I had hoped for beef or venison, but I see that they have done even
better. Now we can fill our empty stomachs and cheat the hyenas
that howl about us.”
“A welcome change from bugs and willow-bark,” said one of the
hunters. “Plump and round he is, like a raccoon stuffed with winter
fat.”
“Good; very good,” chuckled the old witch. “A present for your
dear old mother, eh? Too long have I lain in your filthy cave with
nothing but cold air to stir my stomach. But you shall all share alike
and I ask nothing—nothing but the heart all warm and bleeding.
Quick, bring him to the butcher-block so that he may be dressed and
served without delay.”
“What, and bring the lions down upon us?” cried a voice.
All turned towards the speaker, a young woman who had suddenly
appeared from behind a bend in the cliff wall. She was gazing
curiously at the prisoner. “You know the rule as well as I,” she said
boldly even as the old hag glowered savagely upon her.
Grunts of approval sounded on all sides. Pic evinced a sudden
interest in the newcomer. He saw before him a mere girl whose wan
features and wasted body nevertheless retained much of youthful
feminine grace. Her face lacked the great hollows and bone-ridges
so marked in the visages of those about her. Pic took in these details
at a glance. They pleased him; he smiled. The girl’s face assumed an
astonished expression; and then—she smiled too. Pic could not
repress the exclamation that arose to his lips. Never before had his
peculiarly human and friendly greeting been returned in its own coin.
At the sound he made, all turned upon him in surprise, then to the
cause of his outburst, only to see the eyes of both lowered meekly
to the ground and apparently without interest in the things about
them.
 The burly chieftain now ended the matter with a wave of his ax.
“The girl is right,” he growled. “The rule stands even though we
starve. The day grows short. None shall taint the camp with fresh
blood and draw the night-prowling lions and hyenas upon us. Not
until the first streak of dawn, can we bring him to the butcher-block
and break our long fast.”
As the sunset afterglow faded out of the western sky, the Cave-
men sought comfortable positions beneath the shelter and made
ready for their night’s rest. The prisoner was forced to lie upon the
ground and his captors then arranged themselves about him so that
any move on his part would be quickly observed. Pic submitted
without a protest—not that he had become resigned to his fate—but
he deemed it wise to assume a passive attitude and thereby dull any
suspicions that might be entertained of what was passing in his
mind. His hands were tied behind him—so tightly that his fingers
were numbed and swollen; but his legs remained unbound. None
seemed to think it necessary to deprive him of the use of his legs;
nor did he feel it his duty to remind them. He heaved a deep sigh,
closed his eyes and in a few moments was—to all appearances—
sound asleep.
All was now quiet in the camp except for the hard breathing of
weary men and the distant cries of night-roving creatures. One of
the sleepers stirred and raised himself on one elbow. It was Pic. His
chance had come. He gathered his legs under him and crouched low
on bent knees. A twig cracked beneath him. A shoulder moved. Its
owner’s head arose and sniffed the night air. Without a sound, Pic
settled down again upon his face and stomach and lay still. The
voice of the old hag now fell like death upon his ears.
“Up, fools,” she croaked with all the cunning of an unbalanced
mind. “Would you permit your next meal to be lost forever? The Ape
Boy may untie his bonds and escape. Some of you must lie awake
and watch:” then as nobody answered, she shook the man nearest
her until the teeth rattled in his head.
 “Ugh! Be quiet mother,” protested the one thus roughly handled.
“Tired and starved bodies must have rest. I will not lie awake even
though to-night be my last sleep.”
“Nor I; and I,” grumbled several others. “Do the work yourself if
you feel that it must be done;” and with that they rolled over again
and breathed loudly.
The old hag foamed with rage.
“May you rot, every one of you, and find your night’s rest in
hyena’s stomachs,” she cried. “This Ape Boy shall not escape. I will
kill him now, even though it bring the lions upon us.”
As she groped about in the darkness for an ax wherewith to carry
out her threat, two of the men leaped to their feet and seized her
arms.
“Hold,” said one of them. “Would you call upon the wild beasts to
destroy us? He is secure enough and sleeps soundly. Look and see
for yourself.”
Pic’s eyes were closed. His mouth was wide open and he breathed
noisily as the three bent low and peered into his face. But even his
wit was overmatched by the old hag’s malevolent and uncanny craft.
“Fools! dullards!” she croaked. “Cannot you see that with all of our
noise, he should now be wide awake? He but makes a pretense of
sleep. An end to your trickery,” and she cuffed the prisoner’s ears.
Pic made a clumsy effort to appear as one suddenly aroused from
his slumbers. His savage tormentor looked closely into his face.
“You sleep soundly for one who has so short a time to live,” she
sneered. “But now that you are awake, we three will keep you
company and watch over every hair of your body.”
Her two companions became impatient at the thought of losing
their night’s rest but at the same time they hesitated to trust the old
woman alone with the prisoner.
 “Much good that will do us,” one of them growled. “Let someone
else watch while you lie down and sleep before the limit of our
patience is reached.”
An idea came suddenly to the wretched old creature’s mind.
“Arrah! I have it,” she said, climbing over those about her to one
of the sleepers who lay on the outside of the group. “Here is one
who can and shall do this night’s vigil. Those who stay at home and
lie around, need no rest. Get up and follow me.”
A slim figure rose quickly to its feet and followed along in the
darkness behind its fierce mentor. In a moment, the pair were
standing over the prisoner.
“Keep your eye on this tidbit,” directed the old hag, indicating the
captive with a well-aimed kick. “Watch him closely, for your own life
will depend upon the watching. Do you hear?”
“Yes, I hear.” Until this moment, the slim figure had made no sign.
The voice was that of the girl.
“Take care that you do not fall asleep and permit him to escape
us,” warned the old witch. “If you do and he is not here in the
morning, you must take his place on the butcher-block.”
“Let us hope he will find wings and fly away,” growled a voice. “Of
the two, I can easily make my choice.”
Loud grunts greeted this sally, showing that even these starving
men were not entirely lacking in humor. Gradually their merriment
subsided, the old hag stretched herself full length upon the ground
and Pic was left to the tender mercies of his newly-chosen guard.
He opened his eyes. The light of the rising moon reflected in the
sky, showed him the form of the girl seated by his side. Her features
were obscure. Her face was turned away, watching not him but the
encircling sleepers and in particular the old hag who rolled and
tumbled about as though in a torment of fanciful dreams.
 Pic groaned inwardly. Would his jailer never weary of her task?
The girl was wide awake and alert as he could see from her attitude
and poise of head. Time was passing. If he could but free his hands,
he might strike her down, leap clear of the group and escape.
As he strained the muscles of his arms to rid himself of his
torturing bonds, a hand touched his shoulder. He ceased further
effort and lay still. The girl was bending over him. Her face brushed
his elbow. He could feel her warm breath gliding downward towards
his wrists. Something tugged at the rawhide thong—something that
sniffed and panted warm, moist respiration upon his palms. The girl
was untying the knot with her teeth.
Little by little, the green leather relaxed and the blood circulated
once more through Pic’s numbed hands. The wrappings were quickly
removed. He was free. Not a word was spoken. He raised himself to
a squatting position. An ax—the blade of Ach Eul—was placed within
his grasp, then a hand patted his back and a voice whispered in his
ear, one word: “Go.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, he arose to his feet and with body
bent low, stepped among the sleeping men. Accidentally he touched
one of them who stirred and half awoke, whereupon the fugitive
sank quickly and silently to the ground and lay still. The moon was
now climbing rapidly above the heights, flooding the heavens with
its brilliant light. Pic became alarmed. The lifting darkness enabled
him to see more clearly but it permitted others to see as well and
thereby lessened his chances of escape. He allowed himself a brief
period of inaction so that the one he had disturbed might become
quiet; then rose again and glided forward with ax held aloft to brain
the first who might awake and give the alarm. Had a single eye
opened, it might easily have seen his dark form outlined against the
sky. But no eye opened, not a sleeper stirred and he passed among
them without let or hindrance.
As he stepped clear of the last prone figure, she whom he had left
behind, remained silent, watching him steal slowly away. As he
passed into the shadow of the cliff wall, she sighed deeply and her
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