Two days went by.  The food, untouched, was corrupting in the sun.  The third day, and Monarch still lay on his breast, his huge muzzle under his huger paw.  His eyes were hidden; only a slight heaving of his broad chest was now seen.

“He is dying,” said one keeper.  “He can’t live overnight.”

“Send for Kellyan,” said another.

So Kellyan came, slight and thin.  There was the beast that he had chained, pining, dying.  He had sobbed his life out in his last hope’s death, and a thrill of pity came over the hunter, for men of grit and power love grit and power.  He put his arm through the cage bars and stroked him, but Monarch made no sign.  His body was cold.  At length a little moan was sign of life, and Kellyan said, “Here, let me go in to him.”

“You are mad,” said the keepers, and they would not open the cage.  But Kellyan persisted till they put in a cross-grating in front of the Bear.  Then, with this between, he approached.  His hand was on the shaggy head, but Monarch lay as before.  The hunter stroked his victim and spoke to him.  His hand went to the big round ears, small above the head.  They were rough to his touch.  He looked again, then started.  What! is it true?  Yes, the stranger’s tale was true, for both ears were pierced with a round hole—­one torn large—­and Kellyan knew that once again he had met his little Jack.

“Why, Jacky, I didn’t know it was you.  I never would have done it if I had known it was you.  Jacky, old pard, don’t you know me?”

But Jack stirred not, and Kellyan got up quickly.  Back to the hotel he flew; there he put on his hunter’s suit, smoky and smelling of pine gum and grease, and returned with a mass of honeycomb to reenter the cage.

“Jacky, Jacky!” he cried, “honey, honey!” and he held the tempting comb before him.  But Monarch lay as one dead now.

“Jacky, Jacky! don’t you know me?” He dropped the honey and laid his hands on the great muzzle.

The voice was forgotten.  The old-time invitation, “Honey, Jacky—­honey,” had lost its power, but the smell of the honey, the coat, the hands that he had fondled, had together a hidden potency.

There is a time when the dying of our race forget their life, but clearly remember the scenes of childhood; these only are real and return with master power.  And why not with a Bear?  The power of scent was there to call them back again, and Jacky, the Grizzly Monarch, raised his head a little—­just a little; the eyes were nearly closed, but the big brown nose was jerked up feebly two or three times—­the sign of interest that Jacky used to give in days of old.  Now it was Kellyan that broke down even as the Bear had done.

“I didn’t know it was you, Jacky, or I never would have done it.  Oh, Jacky, forgive me!” He rose and fled from the cage.

The keepers were there.  They scarcely understood the scene, but one of them, acting on the hint, pushed the honeycomb nearer and cried, “Honey, Jacky—­honey!”