Slowly the blood returned to the sick man’s pallid face. Once more his one good eye opened and gazed at his son. As he struggled to rise, the latter’s powerful arm helped him into a sitting posture.
“I knew it,” the Cave Man muttered. “My boy is no traitor; friend of beasts, enemy of men. You fought the flesh-eaters—for your sick old father. I saw—and you fought well.”
These last words were spoken in a scarcely audible whisper—a last outpouring of fast-failing strength. But with his expiring breath, the dying man’s will-power thrust aside, for a moment, the hand of death and summoned strength for words too weighty to be borne unspoken to the grave.
“Listen,” he gasped. “I am not ungrateful. The treasure—it is yours. High on the mountain side—buried in the cave floor—near the entrance,—beneath a stone.” The voice became stilled, the eyes closed and the body fell back heavily. The Ape Boy bent low with one ear against the shrivelled chest. Eyes and mouth remained staring, wide-open, but the heart beats were stilled forever. Death had finally come to free the Cave Man from his sufferings.
VIII
“It is finished. He is dead.” Pic stood at the cave-mouth facing the two animals who all this time had remained awed spectators of what was transpiring within.
Wulli took a long deep breath. He turned to the Mammoth. “The Trog-man is dead. Why should we stay here?”
“Yes, why?” Hairi glanced at Pic. “And you—what will you do now?”