“Flints?” Pic leaned far over the Mammoth’s neck and looked eagerly at the ground beneath him. He saw yellow lumps, broken flakes and hammer-stones, in profusion. “Whoow-w!” he sucked in his breath and gazed at them in astonishment.
He had intruded upon a colony of flint-workers. These men were merely engaged in procuring one of life’s necessities; means for destroying other lives to preserve their own. The bank was a chalk-ledge overlooking the Seine. It was the center of a thriving industry—a mine and munitions factory combined. It contained wealth more precious than gold or silver; for to these men unfamiliar with metals, flint was the staff of life whereby they were enabled to exist.
There it was in piles freshly extracted from the chalk, awaiting the first manufacturing operation—splitting by the hammer-stone. Many lumps already split, also the wax-like flakes hewn from them, lay strewn upon the ground. Flints! and such wonderful ones too! Pic’s eyes caught the lustre of broken flakes. Was the workmanship as fine as the material itself? He looked at the blade of his own ax and trembled. The secret of its making, might at that very moment be lying at his feet.
“We must know more of this. Why do you stop, clumsy beast”—these last words were addressed to the Mammoth who showed a decided reluctance to move closer.—“Forward. Do you fear a handful of cave-men? Agh! hurry, I say.”
Hairi shook his head from side to side and protested with loud grunts, but ended by descending the bank and striding among the workers and piles of flint. At a signal from his rider, he stopped. Pic peered down between his head and shoulder. His gaze alighted on a hide heaped with broken flakes. The patriarch who had first spoken was kneeling beside it.
“Fling-stones,” Pic exclaimed in tones of withering scorn. “Is this your best work? Stand up, old man and answer before I lose patience and bid the Mammoth crush you where you lie.”
The patriarch scrambled to his feet and stood with head bowed, arms folded across his breast; awed in spirit but heedless of bodily danger. Pic’s heart softened.
“Is this your best work?” he asked, again pointing to the broken flakes. “If so, it ill becomes such fine material to be so butchered. Have you none like this?” He held out his own ax by its long wooden handle so that the other might see.
The old man’s eyes brightened as they caught sight of the wonderful blade. He stepped forward and stood directly beneath the Mammoth’s chin. His arms were outstretched towards the great flint like those of a worshipper before a shrine.