The 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 head fell forward upon her breast. Had Pic looked back, he might have seen the slim figure sitting upright with head bowed like a lamb amid a pack of blood-thirsty wolves. But he neither looked back nor saw, for already he had rounded a bend in the wall and was gone.

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