"Sluggard!" he spat at Rog. "You run off and hide, do you, while others work? Already black clouds gather, but you let old men and women, as well as the younger ones, find food to keep the fat on your bones during the long winter."
Rog stiffened with anxiety. He saw Lo watching him wide-eyed and white of face, and realized Luk-no was grinning at his predicament. He decided on a bold lie. "I was stalking a deer," he said. "I followed it far into the hills, but could not get close enough to kill it. Had I succeeded, it would have fed more mouths than what roots I could have gathered."
The Old Man snorted. "You do not even lie well," he snarled. "You carry only a club. Did you think to get close enough to kill it with that?" His close-set, red-rimmed eyes blazed. "Where is your spear?"
"I—I lost it," Rog faltered.
"Lost it, did you?" shouted Sarak. "Well, I have not lost my club, smooth-faced one! Feel its anger, now, and remember, when you feel like sleeping in the forest instead of working."
His wide mouth was distorted, baring ugly black snags of teeth as he advanced. The thick cudgel, weighted with a stone, came up over his head.
For a moment Rog considered springing in to battle. His mind weighed his chances. Against Sarak, perhaps, he might have had a chance of coming out alive, but the tribe was incensed against him now. Luk-no would lead them against him should he vanquish the bloodthirsty Old Man.
Then blows were raining down upon his head and back. As best he could, he warded them off with his club, but the blood sprang from half a dozen wounds in the first few seconds. He went to his knees, dazed and bleeding. Sarak shouted and screamed and danced, in savage enjoyment of his tribal right to punish, justifiably or not. His thick lips gleamed with saliva.
And Rog bit his lip against the pain and bore it. He ground down the hate welling up within his breast, because he must come out of this alive. Whatever it cost him, he must endure it, or the secret of the museum might die with Johann Adam. A bitter laugh was torn from his lips at the thought that his only motive in living was to help the tribe!
The wall of leering faces swam before his vision. The ruler's countenance loomed before them all, twisted with savagery. His breathing was stertorous, rasping through clenched teeth. At last Rog could stand no more. The club fell from his hands and he sprawled on his face in the cavern.