“It came with you,” was the answer. “You wore it.”
“Yes, I remember now,” muttered Pic. “I wore it to keep warm. The air was cold. I do not feel cold now.”
“That was long ago,” said the Giant. “The snow and ice are gone. The birds have returned and all creatures have crawled from their holes. Buds and green leaves brighten every bush and tree. Until their coming, you lay as one dead. This is the first time you have awakened since my club crashed down upon your skull——”
“You struck me?” Pic cried. “Then it was you who crept upon me from behind—the shadow on the wall.”
“Yes it was I.” The Giant pointed to an object on the cave floor, a bludgeon of seasoned oak, the length and thickness of his arm. “The one blow failed to kill. I withheld the second and brought you back to life instead.”
“Why? Men are none too gentle with those who intrude upon them, I know.”
“Nor do men of this day carry great hand-stones,” the Giant replied. “But for it, your bones would now be whitening at the bottom of the gorge. Who are you—a boy who comes upon me as though from the sky bearing the blade of a race long dead—the Terrace Men—?”
“Terrace Men? Agh-h-h!” Pic’s eyes were starting from his head. His jaw dropped until the chin touched his breast. A lump arose in his throat. He could say no more.
“Yes, the Terrace Man’s hand-stone,” said the Giant. “The one you bore bound to a wooden haft. Wait and I will fetch it. When you see, you will remember.”
He entered the cave and returned in a few moments with a great almond-shaped flint of lustrous grey—the blade of Ach Eul still bound to its long wooden handle with strips of hide. He laid it in the Ape Boy’s trembling hands.