The 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[171] 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[172] 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.[173] “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[174] own tribe; ............