So they desisted and left him wrapped in the skin and tied to a tree near the cabin door.  There he constantly walked back and forth on all fours, the length of his rope, restlessly and in silence, as caged animals do.  If any one approached too near he sprang at the intruder with a savage growl and a snap of his jaws.  But otherwise he paid no attention to any of those who had expected to be his guests.  He refused to eat, unless they offered him acorns or dry oak leaves.  These he devoured voraciously.

There was some scrawled writing on the scraps of paper I had pieced together and the Artist and I made out some disjointed sentences.  We agreed that the lunatic must have written them himself, in the first beclouding of his mind, and we thought the words might have some effect upon him.  So we went out to where the poor, crazed creature was tied, and, looking him squarely in the eyes, the Artist spoke very slowly: 

“Dorothy.  Dorothy.  She said I am a bear.  Where is Dorothy?”

He stopped and stared and a puzzled, human look came into his eyes.  He rose slowly to his feet and stood upright, leaning against the tree.  For the moment he forgot his bearskin covering and it half fell off.  He stared at us, mumbling strange sounds, which presently became incoherent words of human speech.  But he spoke thickly and uncertainly, like one long unused to the sound of his voice: 

“Where is—­Dorothy?  I want—­she said—­Dorothy—­Dorothy—­she said—­I —­a bear—­I—­I—­am—­a bear.”

Then he dropped to all fours again and drew his bearskin closely about him and that was the last flicker of human intelligence that he showed.

The next morning the men made a small platform of some loose boards to which they tied the lunatic.  He fought desperately against his bonds, and it required the combined strength of all the men of the party to fasten him securely to the platform.  Then the guide improvised a harness of ropes and hitched to this primitive sled the horse which he himself rode.  Watching the poor creature closely, our little party went slowly back to the Valley, whence he was sent to an asylum.  The Artist wrote to Mrs. Moulton an account of his condition, and told her also its probable cause.

Some months afterward I went to the asylum, purposely to learn what had become of him.  The physician said his mental condition was steadily improving, that there was a pretty sure prospect of his recovery, and that he would probably be sane all the rest of his life, if—­and the doctor put a significant emphasis upon that little word—­“if he lives as a sane man should, among men, and busies himself as other men do.”

Then the man of healing took from a shelf a book and read to me the words which I have put at the beginning of this account.

He told me also that Mrs. Moulton was there, that she had been there almost from the first, and that she spent all the time with the unfortunate man that the physicians would allow.