In and out among the caves, on the level floor of the main cavern, people were going about what seemed daily tasks. Men were talking together and mending weapons, some were fishing from the river; women were replenishing fires, preparing garments; and altogether it might have been any other village in Britain, to judge from their occupations. But it all struck Cororuc as extremely unreal; the strange place, the small, silent people, going about their tasks, the river flowing silently through it all. Then they became aware of the prisoner and flocked about him. There was none of the shouting, abuse and indignities, such as savages usually heap on their captives, as the small men drew about Cororuc, silently eyeing him with malevolent, wolfish stares. The warrior shuddered, in spite of himself. But his captors pushed through the throng, driving the Briton before them. Close to the bank of the river, they stopped and drew away from around him. * * * * * Two great fires leaped and flickered in front of him and there was something between them. He focused his gaze and presently made out the object. A high stone seat, like a throne; and in it seated an aged man, with a long white beard, silent, motionless, but with black eyes that gleamed like a wolf's. 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." The firelight flickered and danced, throwing vague reflections on the towering walls and on the rushing, silent current. The ancient's voice echoed through the mighty cavern.