Chapter 3

Cororuc’s hair bristled at thought of being borne into that
forbidding-looking cave. What manner of men were they? In all Britain
and Alba, in Cornwall or Ireland, Cororuc had never seen such men.
Small dwarfish men, who dwelt in the earth. Cold sweat broke out on the
youth’s forehead. Surely they were the malevolent dwarfs of whom the
Cornish people had spoken, who dwelt in their caverns by day, and by
night sallied forth to steal and burn dwellings, even slaying if the
opportunity arose! You will hear of them, even today, if you journey in
Cornwall.

The men, or elves, if such they were, bore him into the cavern, others
entering and drawing the boulder back into place. For a moment all was
darkness, and then torches began to glow, away off. And at a shout they
moved on. Other men of the caves came forward, with the torches.

Cororuc looked about him. The torches shed a vague glow over the
scene. Sometimes one, sometimes another wall of the cave showed for
an instant, and the Briton was vaguely aware that they were covered
with paintings, crudely done, yet with a certain skill his own race
could not equal. But always the roof remained unseen. Cororuc knew that
the seemingly small cavern had merged into a cave of surprizing size.
Through the vague light of the torches the strange people moved, came
and went, silently, like shadows of the dim past.

He felt the cords or thongs that bound his feet loosened. He was lifted
upright.

“Walk straight ahead,” said a voice, speaking the language of his own
race, and he felt a spearpoint touch the back of his neck.

And straight ahead he walked, feeling his sandals scrape on the
stone floor of the cave, until they came to a place where the floor
tilted upward. The pitch was steep and the stone was so slippery that
Cororuc could not have climbed it alone. But his captors pushed him,
and pulled him, and he saw that long, strong vines were strung from
somewhere at the top.

Those the strange men seized, and bracing their feet against the
slippery ascent, went up swiftly. When their feet found level surface
again, the cave made a turn, and Cororuc blundered out into a firelit
scene that made him gasp.

The cave debouched into a cavern so vast as to be almost incredible.
The mighty walls swept up into a great arched roof that vanished in the
darkness. A level floor lay between, and through it flowed a river; an
underground river. From under one wall it flowed to vanish silently
under the other. An arched stone bridge, seemingly of natural make,
spanned the current.

All around the walls of the great cavern, which was roughly circular,
were smaller caves, and before each glowed a fire. Higher up were other
caves, regularly arranged, tier on tier. Surely human men could not
have built such a city.

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.

“Our people came from the south. Over the islands, over the Inland
Sea. Over the snow-topped mountains, where some remained, to stay
any enemies who might follow. Down into the fertile plains we came.
Over all the land we spread. We became wealthy and prosperous. Then
two kings arose in the land, and he who conquered, drove out the
conquered. So many of us made boats and set sail for the far-off cliffs
that gleamed white in the sunlight. We found a fair land with fertile
plains. We found a race of red-haired barbarians, who dwelt in caves.
Mighty giants, of great bodies and small minds.

“We built our huts of wattle. We tilled the soil. We cleared the
forest. We drove the red-haired giants back into the forest. Farther we
drove them back until at last they fled to the mountains of the west
and the mountains of the north. We were rich. We were prosperous.

“Then,” and his voice thrilled with rage and hate, until it seemed to
reverberate through the cavern, “then the Celts came. From the isles of
the west, in their rude coracles they came. In the west they landed,
but they were not satisfied with the west. They marched eastward and
seized the fertile plains. We fought. They were stronger. They were
fierce fighters and they were armed with weapons of bronze, whereas we
had only weapons of flint.