"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