“Marvellous,” he muttered in an awed voice. “Never have I seen so fine a blade. May I touch it, noble master?” His palms trembled as they hovered over the object of his adoration.
“Yes, you may touch it,” replied the Ape Boy with a kindly smile; and for an instant the ax was hidden between the old man’s hands.
“Ah, Blade of Ach Eul!” he murmured devoutly. “None can equal it. Never will the work of us poor cave-folk equal that of the Terrace Men. We strive in vain.”
“Well spoken,” Pic interrupted. “None can equal it. But how was it done?” This question was delivered with such earnestness, the old man trembled.
“Of that I know nothing,” he stammered. “The Terrace Men have passed away and their secret with them.”
“Who were the Terrace Men?” asked Pic. His voice shook even more than that of the patriarch.
The Meeting With the Seine Flint Workers
“A race of flint-workers who once lived on the high river banks—the upper terraces,” was the answer. “But this is the Man Mammoth’s Weapon; incomparable with the Terrace Man’s finest flint. And yet it is much the same.” He patted the blade reverently. “But as calf’s flesh pleases the taste more than does that of the aged bull, so does this blade of Ach Eul shame the work of mortal hands.”