After a moment’s wait to accustom his eyes to the darkness, Pic groped his way to the rear wall. As his hands glided along the clammy rock, it suddenly sank into empty space; a large hole partly covered with a limestone slab and large enough to admit a man’s head and shoulders. He was about to examine further when he heard a low scraping noise—rustling—as of something moving in the heart of the rock. “Another wolf;” he smiled grimly and raised his ax all prepared to strike—just as the Giant had struck. The noise grew louder,—scraping, scratching, growls and mutterings. Pic’s hair stood on end. His knees trembled. He bent down and hastily replaced the stone slab across the opening; then tip-toed to a far corner of the cave—his corner and bed of leaves. For an instant, the latter rustled noisily as he made a nest for himself, then all was quiet there except for loud breathing as of one who sleeps.
His face was turned towards the crack in the rear wall. One eye watched the limestone slab through half-closed lids. It saw the stone thrust gently aside. A head appeared in the opening. Two eyes—fire-specks in the center of great black blotches—turned this way and that; towards the cave entrance, the outside ledge and lastly the interior of the cave itself. In a moment, they alighted upon the figure lying on the bed of leaves. Pic’s eyes were closed. To all appearances, he was sound asleep. The head, then shoulders and body drew themselves clear of the dark hole and re-set the stone in place. This done, the newcomer glided to the far corner of the cave and stood over the figure huddled in the nest of leaves.
For Pic, this was a terrible moment. He breathed heavily—so heavily and his heart pounded so loudly against his ribs, he dreaded less they arouse suspicions as to the soundness of his slumber. Great was his relief when he heard the intruder turn away towards the entrance. He opened one eye and saw a huge, dark figure standing in the cave-mouth, peering up at the sky. The figure was the Giant of the Neander Gorge.
The sleeper stirred, yawned audibly and rubbed his eyes, whereupon the Giant looked around, growled and straightway resumed his sky-gazing. Pic sat up; but he made no effort to leave his nest. He was wondering how he could leave the grotto and reach the stairway leading to the plateau above without being observed. His host blocked the exit. No longer did he think to withhold his departure until morning. His plans were laid to leave at the earliest possible moment.
He shuddered, for just then the Giant whined as though in fear and shrank back within the cave. Pic glanced through the entrance into the world outside. The clouds no longer moved. They hung so thick and low, it seemed as though any moment, they might fall and fill the gorge. The air was warm and stifling beneath the black pall overhead. It was not air; only a dark greenish haze occasionally lighted by a momentary radiance. The storm was at hand. All grew dark. Pic shut his eyes and tried to forget.
A tremendous crash and a flood of dazzling light penetrated the innermost recesses of the cave. With a cry of terror, Pic looked wildly about him. His eyes were half-blinded by a succession of brilliant flares which momentarily lighted up the cave-mouth and platform outside. The flares alternated with thunderous roars which made the rock-roof tremble above his head. Outside, the rain descended in torrents. The wind swept in blind fury across the gorge—a black, howling madness, battering against the southern limestone wall.
As he cowered trembling in his corner, a low, beast-like snarl fell upon his ears—more menacing, more terrifying than the roaring tempest. Suddenly a flash of light revealed a sight that made his hair stand on end. The staring eyes, bared teeth and distorted features of a fiend were seared upon his brain as with a red-hot iron.
“Men cannot live alone;” Pic remembered his companion’s recent warning; and now he understood. No human being could long endure the companionship of none but his own thoughts, the gloom of a cave and the cold and darkness of winter, when even the sight of his own shadow was denied him. The Neander Giant had gone mad.
Pic’s blood ran cold. He had no fear of the storm now. He feared nothing but the fiend beside him. Not even the Cave Lion could have inspired a fraction of the terror he felt at that one glimpse of the madman’s distorted face. The Giant had warned him to leave. He must go now—at once.