The wolf-Pict stepped forward and began to speak to the chief, using Celtic, evidently for the prisoner's benefit. (Cororuc was surprized to hear so many speak his language, not reflecting upon its comparative simplicity, and the ability of the Picts.) "What is this?" asked the Pict who had played wolf. "A man is to be burned who should not be!" "How?" exclaimed the old man fiercely, clutching his long beard. "Who are you to go against a custom of age-old antiquity?" "I met a panther," answered the other, "and this Briton risked his life to save mine. Shall a Pict show ingratitude?" And as the ancient hesitated, evidently pulled one way by his fanatical lust for revenge, and the other by his equally fierce racial pride, the Pict burst into a wild flight of oration, carried on in his own language. At last the ancient chief nodded. "A Pict ever paid his debts," said he with impressive grandeur. "Never a Pict forgets. Unbind him. No Celt shall ever say that a Pict showed ingratitude." Cororuc was released, and as, like a man in a daze, he tried to stammer his thanks, the chief waved them aside. "A Pict never forgets a foe, ever remembers a friendly deed," he replied. "Come," murmured his Pictish friend, tugging at the Celt's arm. He led the way into a cave leading away from the main cavern. As they went, Cororuc looked back, to see the ancient chief seated upon his stone throne, his eyes gleaming as he seemed to gaze back through the lost glories of the ages; on each hand the fires leaped and flickered. A figure of grandeur, the king of a lost race. On and on Cororuc's guide led him. And at last they emerged and the Briton saw the starlit sky above him. "In that way is a village of your tribesmen," said the Pict, pointing, "where you will find a welcome until you wish to take up your journey anew." And he pressed gifts on the Celt; gifts of garments of cloth and finely worked deerskin, beaded belts, a fine horn bow with arrows skilfully tipped with obsidian. Gifts of food. His own weapons were returned to him. "But an instant," said the Briton, as the Pict turned to go. "I followed your tracks in the forest. They vanished." There was a question in his voice. The Pict laughed softly, "I leaped into the branches of the tree. Had you looked up, you would have seen me. If ever you wish a friend, you will ever find one in Berula, chief among the Alban Picts." He turned and vanished. And Cororuc strode through the moonlight toward the Celtic village.