In a twinkle, Pic had become the man of the hour. By those who would have rent him asunder, he now was acclaimed. The tongue was torn from the bison head and presented to him, after which the mob hurried to the fire to sear the meat as fast as it could be cut up and passed on from the butcher-block.
Gradually the shouts and yells became hushed as the Cave-men huddled about the now roaring blaze. While some dashed hither and thither like mad things, hunting for wooden poles or spits, others wasted no time but held the gory chunks over the flames in their bare hands. A few, less fortunate in finding space for themselves about the fire and impatient of delay, squatted on the outside of the group and ate their morsels raw.
The sombre gloom of the camp which had been so suddenly transformed into a bedlam of joy, was again changed to a seething ferment of sizzling, steaming, crackling flesh and slobbering jaws while the smell of blood and seared meat filled the air and rose to heaven through an inferno of black smoke and grease-fed flames.
While the Men of Ferrassie were thus enjoying themselves, gathered about the fire, feasting and revelling, Pic sought her who had saved him and who in her turn had so miraculously escaped death on the butcher-block. While her people hacked and tore the dead bison, she stood aloof and took no part. As they streamed to the great stone with their gory trophies, she stepped back and watched the cutting and pounding with hungry eyes. The last shreds were stripped from the carcass and the men were crowding about the fire, leaving her unnoticed when suddenly a broad, thick-set figure appeared at her side.
“The tongue; see; I have saved it for you. Take and eat, it is yours.”
It was Pic who spoke. He held the reeking morsel in his outstretched hands. The girl eyed it longingly, then glanced towards the fire and hesitated.
“I must wait,” she said timidly. “The men have not yet finished. You see there is no place for me.”
Without a word, Pic turned and forced his way into the group, thrusting the greedy feasters roughly aside to make room. A chorus of wild yells greeted his arrival: “Killer of the Bison! Lion Tamer! Stand back and let him roast his fare.”
Those nearest Pic made way while he held the great tongue over the flames until it was well seared. This operation being completed, he left his place by the fire and strode to the butcher-block. With the blade of his ax, he chopped the tongue in two.
“Sit down,” he said. The girl came forward obediently and seated herself upon the great stone. At a sign from Pic, she seized one of the severed morsels and set upon it with her sharp teeth, all the time moaning softly as she ate.