They left these traps open and unset till they were grayed with age and smelt no more of man.  Then the two hunters prepared for the final play.  They baited all without setting them—­baited them with honey, the lure that Monarch never had refused—­and when at length they found the honey baits were gone, they came where he now was taking toll and laid the long-planned snare.  Every trap was set, and baited as before with a mass of honey—­but honey now mixed with a potent sleeping draft.

XVI.  LANDLOCKED

That night the great Bear left his lair, one of his many lairs, and, cured of all his wounds, rejoicing in the fullness of his mighty strength, he strode toward the plains.  His nose, ever alert, reported—­sheep, a deer, a grouse; men—­more sheep, some cows, and some calves; a bull—­a fighting bull—­and Monarch wheeled in big, rude, Bearish joy at the coming battle brunt; but as he hugely hulked from hill to hill a different message came, so soft and low, so different from the smell of beefish brutes, one might well wonder he could sense it, but like a tiny ringing bell when thunder booms it came, and Monarch wheeled at once.  Oh, it cast a potent spell!  It stood for something very near to ecstasy with him, and down the hill and through the pines he went, on and on faster yet, abandoned to its sorcery.  Here to its home he traced it, a long, low cavern.  He had seen such many times before, had been held in them more than once, but had learned to spurn them.  For weeks he had been robbing them of their treasures, and its odor, like a calling voice, was still his guide.  Into the cavern he passed and it reeked with the smell of joy.  There was the luscious mass, and Monarch, with all caution lulled now, licked and licked, then seized to tear the bag for more, when down went the door with a low “bang!” The Monarch started, but all was still and there was no smell of danger.  He had forced such doors before.  His palate craved the honey still, and he licked and licked, greedily at first, then calmly, then slowly, then drowsily—­then at last stopped.  His eyes were closing, and he sank slowly down on the earth and slept a heavy sleep.

Calm, but white-faced, were they—­the men—­when in the dawn they came.  There were the huge scarred tracks in-leading; there was the door down; there dimly they could see a mass of fur that filled the pen, that heaved in deepest sleep.

Strong ropes, strong chains and bands of steel were at hand, with chloroform, lest he should revive too soon.  Through holes in the roof with infinite toil they chained him, bound him—­his paws to his neck, his neck and breast and hind legs to a bolted beam.  Then raising the door, they dragged him out, not with horses—­none would go near—­but with a windlass to a tree; and fearing the sleep of death, they let him now revive.