The ancient was clothed in some kind of a single, flowing garment. One clawlike hand rested on the seat near him, skinny, crooked fingers, with talons like a hawk's. The other hand was hidden among his garments.
The firelight danced and flickered; now the old man stood out clearly, his hooked, beaklike nose and long beard thrown into bold relief; now he seemed to recede until he was invisible to the gaze of the Briton, except for his glittering eyes.
"Speak, Briton!" The words came suddenly, strong, clear, without a hint of age. "Speak, what would ye say?"
Cororuc, taken aback, stammered and said, "Why, why—what manner of people are you? Why have you taken me prisoner? Are you elves?"
"We are Picts," was the stern reply.
"Picts!" Cororuc had heard tales of those ancient people from the Gaelic Britons; some said that they still lurked in the hill of Siluria, but——
"I have fought Picts in Caledonia," the Briton protested; "they are short but massive and misshapen; not at all like you!"
"They are not true Picts," came the stern retort. "Look about you, Briton," with a wave of an arm, "you see the remnants of a vanishing race; a race that once ruled Britain from sea to sea."
The Briton stared, bewildered.
"Harken, Briton," the voice continued; "harken, barbarian, while I tell to you the tale of the lost race."