The blood was pulsing through my veins now; the buzzing of the bees in my head had ceased entirely and I could walk more strongly and freely. I put on my quiver with its few remaining arrows, thrust my axe into my belt, restrung my bow, and with it in one hand and my spear in the other, went toward the rocks from behind which came the hoarse but, somehow, not unfamiliar voices. I need not have made ready for fight. As I turned at the end of the rocks and came in sight of those behind it there rose a shout which was not one of threatening, but rather of rude welcome. The sight astonished me. There were at least a hundred men there, some lying down, some wandering about or seated upon the rocks, while a group of them, those whose voices I had heard, were gathered together engaged in some debate. All were armed as I was and clad in nearly the same manner. As I looked upon their faces recollection came upon me swiftly. They were my comrades; they were of the wanderers and raiders, my own restless, often marauding tribe, who had come from afar, facing perils all unknown, of fighting men or fighting beast, but led on ever by an instinct for plundering and adventure. We knew, as yet, no other tribe like ours or one of which we were afraid. They were brawny men, these brother tribesmen, but among them all was none to boast a front so bull-like nor of such brawn and strength as mine. They closed about me with hoarse shouts and much laughter. “We left you by the rock that you might sleep a little and be strong again,” said one to me. It was Old Horn, our leader, who spoke, a man huge and gray-headed and gray-bearded and rough of way and to whom I was as his right hand in the fighting or the hunting. “We knew that you were but stunned. No Goatskin may split such a head as yours!”