“A wonderful toss,” muttered Pic as the brute went spinning aloft; and he gazed in awe upon the Giant who now stood watching him with arms folded across his broad chest.
“Cave-wolf?” asked Pic. It seemed an absurd question, but he could think of nothing else to say.
“Ugh; a cave-wolf,” growled the other. “I heard him coming and was prepared to strike. Thus I kill all who intrude in my cave.” He glared at Pic so savagely, the youth shrank back alarmed; and yet his fear failed to silence the question that arose involuntarily to his lips:
“The wolf came from the cave. How did he get in?”
Without replying the Giant abruptly left the cave and began to ascend the cliffs where, on one side of the cave-mouth, the steep wall was broken by corners and crevices. This was the Giant’s stairway, his means of ascending from the grotto to the plateau above.
Pic followed and looked on while his surly host clambered up the rock-ladder and disappeared over the top. Once alone, he squatted upon the cave threshold to think over the recent happenings and make his plans.
“I will leave with the next sunrise,” he determined; and as he made this decision, he remembered the Giant’s warning: “Return to your people before it is too late.” He felt lonely and now that the Mammoth and Rhinoceros were gone he longed for a glimpse of his home on the Rock of Moustier. “Perhaps you and your people have misunderstood each other,” a low voice within him said; but the truth was he felt homesick and now longed for human companionship. The Giant’s latest mood inspired his mistrust. In his weakened condition, Pic fully realized his own helplessness, even when armed with his wonderful flint-ax, the blade of Ach Eul.
As he looked upon it, he felt that it had brought him nothing but trouble. His search had ended in failure. True, he had at last found a Terrace Man, only to learn that the latter knew nothing of what he sought—the art of retouching hammered flakes. That art would never again see the light and with that hope gone, his ambition was gone with it. His efforts at flint-making would end now and for all time. He would return to his people—to be a hunter and warrior and live as a man should. The finger of scorn would no longer point at him, the Ape Boy—the little beast without a tail, hiding in a man’s skin. He would be known as Pic, leader of men, enemy of beasts; the Mammoth and Woolly Rhinoceros alone excepted. He glowed, he smiled; for on the morrow he would be on his way—back to his people and the Valley of the Vézère.
A dull, rumbling noise overhead disturbed Pic’s reverie. He looked up startled and saw that the sky had become heavily overcast. Black, threatening clouds were slowly closing the last gap of blue in the southwest quarter. He arose to his feet and entered the cave to find refuge from the storm-clouds that threatened at any moment to pour down their wrath upon his head.
The rumbling sounded again. It was as though some savage beast were growling in the sky. Pic peered into the darkness of the cavern. The wolf had sprung from there—from where? Pic had never examined the cave interior. His whole interest had been in sunshine and fresh air. But the wolf had come from it and others might do the same. For some unknown reason, the Giant had resented any questioning on the subject. The mystery could be investigated during his absence—now.