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 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.

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