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!"
Filled by despair, he had lain down to die, but here was a new-born
hope, not clear, not exact as words might put it, but his conqueror
had shown himself a friend; this seemed a new hope, and the keeper,
taking up the old call, "Honey, Jacky--honey!" pushed the comb till it
touched his muzzle. The smell was wafted to his sense, its message
reached his brain; hope honored, it must awake response. The great
tongue licked the comb, appetite revived, and thus in newborn Hope
began the chapter of his gloom.
Skilful keepers were there with plans to meet the Monarch's every
want. Delicate foods were offered and every shift was tried to tempt
him back to strength and prison life.
He ate and--lived.
And still he lives, but pacing--pacing--pacing--you may see him,
scanning not the crowds, but something beyond the crowds, breaking
down at times into petulant rages, but recovering anon his ponderous
dignity, looking--waiting--watching--held ever by that Hope, that
unknown Hope, that came. Kellyan has been to him since, but Monarch
knows him not.
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