Wonderful indeed! Nothing could be more wonderful; but strange to say Pic turned from them and gazed wistfully at the sky. He sighed. The treasure of Moustier was incomparable with anything in all the world; but its owner now found himself a victim of baffled hope and bitter disappointment.
Why? Simply because they taught him nothing. A knowledge of the art itself and not the finished product was what he sought.
“How were they made?” had been and yet was the question uppermost in his mind; but on this point, the cold lustrous flints remained pitilessly silent. Pic was undisputed master of the treasure; but as far as the manner of its making was concerned, he knew no more now than he did before.
XXI
Pic continued gazing wistfully at the sky. He was thinking of former days; of his search for the Terrace Man which had availed him nothing; of the treasure which after repeated failure, he had now so unexpectedly discovered. The latter pertained to that which he sought above all things—a knowledge of the art whereby men formerly retouched their hammered flakes. But the flints themselves taught him nothing. The knowledge which had seemed almost within his grasp, had now slipped as it were, through his fingers, leaving him as far from his goal as ever. He picked up one of the blades with his left hand.
“This work was not done entirely with the hammer-stone” he reflected bitterly. “Some other means was used to strike off these tiny chips. What it was, I would give my life to know.”
He was about to lay the flint down with its fellows when his eyes fell upon the piece of bone lying upon the rock where he had placed it. Strange, that such a trifling object should intrude itself upon him at this moment. He picked it up and examined it.