He raised himself clear of his nest and felt about for his ax. His hand found it and gripped the haft. Slowly and without a sound, he glided towards the cave-mouth. Another moment and he would have turned the corner to safety when suddenly a hand touched his shoulder—an iron hand which silently bade him advance no farther. He stopped. Cold sweat broke out all over his body. He would have shrieked but his throat could give forth no sound. Again he tried to pass; but the hand and arm behind it were like an iron beam which held him back. He shrank into the cave once more and the pressure was released. No words were spoken—only low growls and beast-like snarls. The lightning flashes increased in frequency and force. They revealed the mad Giant standing guard in the entrance. Pic gripped his ax with a desperate fleeting notion of closing in and attempting to match the other’s strength with his blade of Ach Eul; but another glimpse of the diabolical face and he faltered. Such an idea were madness itself.
And then—he suddenly bethought himself of the opening behind the slab in the rear wall. It was a secret passage, a tunnel communicating with the outside world—liberty. The Wolf had come from there; the Giant too. His despair changed to hope. He retreated to the depths of the cave. It was but the work of a moment to find the limestone panel and push it noiselessly aside. He dropped flat on his belly and thrust his head and shoulders into the opening. The cold water streamed through and almost overwhelmed him, but he paid no heed. He followed with his body, his legs, his feet; and the cave with its mad occupant was left behind.
The passage inclined upwards. It was a crack or seam in the rock, smoothed and enlarged by the water that had trickled through it for untold centuries. He could progress but slowly as he lay flat on his chest and stomach and pushed himself along with his feet and hands. The passage-way seemed endless but he kept on upward as fast as he could crawl. And now he was nearing his journey’s end. Every moment the path ahead was illuminated by flashes of reflected light. He could faintly distinguish a roaring above his head as though the thunder was welcoming his escape from the Giant’s wrath. With a supreme effort he reached the outlet; then shrank back appalled as his head encountered the fury of the storm.
For an instant, he looked on, dismayed. The end of all things, appeared at hand; then the remembrance of the cave and its mad occupant urged him to seek the open—the lesser evil. Once more he pushed his head through the hole. He was about to draw himself clear when something closed on one ankle with an iron grip. A great hand held him fast. It was as though he were chained to the rock. He heard no sound; but with that grip upon his foot, his last chance had passed. In a panic of fear, he turned and struck behind him with his ax. A blood-curdling yell; and the crushing hold on his ankle relaxed. With a bound, he hurled himself clear of the opening, stumbled and fell heavily upon his back. A huge head sprang up behind him. A pair of hands with fingers spread and curled like eagle’s claws, stretched over the prostrate figure. Pic groaned and shut his eyes as the cruel talons descended to clutch his throat.
A deafening crash; a blot of dazzling flame shot down like a meteor from the heavens, striking the madman in the very midst of his spring. A second flash showed his great head and shoulders thrown back across the opening. Both arms were raised aloft and the look on his face was ghastly. Flare after flare revealed him sinking lower and lower, his eyes protruding in a hideous death-stare as though in hatred of the thunderbolt that had cheated him of his prey. Slowly he slid back into the fissure while Pic looked on in fascinated horror until the now lifeless body disappeared from sight.
For an instant, the darkness remained unbroken; then a momentary gleam disclosed a scene of wild desolation along the storm-swept heights overlooking the Neander Gorge. It lighted up the now empty mouth of the fissure and the figure of a man fast disappearing in the blinding fury of the tempest.
XV
The break of winter had just begun to heal the frost-scars and revive the blighted vegetation of the Vézère. The broad table-lands, crags and meadows were already casting their withered coats and preparing to don the green garb of spring, a welcome change after the long season of cold withering death.