"I don't want to scold you," he answered, "but I do want to advise you, and I hope you won't be vexed at a word of counsel from your old friend. My dear boy, that lion of yours is a dangerous pet, and I want you to get rid of him."
"What! get rid of old Max?" cried the King. "You can't mean that, surely, uncle? Why, I couldn't do without him now—he's the oldest friend I've got, except yourself. Besides," he added, slyly, "if I did send him away, what would you do when you wanted to scold me for being passionate, and you had no 'wild beast' to point to?"
"This is no laughing matter," said the Count, shaking his head. "Suppose he were to spring upon you all at once, and seize you in those great jaws of his, what then?"
"As if he'd ever dream of doing anything of the sort!" laughed the King. "Why, he's as tame as any dog, and tamer, too."
"Well, if you won't send him away," urged the Count, "at all events have him chained up, or put in a cage, so that he can do no harm."
"Come, come, uncle," cried the young man, reproachfully, "that's really a little too bad! How long do you think I should live if I were chained or caged up like that? and Max is quite as fond of his liberty as I am of mine. No, no; I'll do anything else you like, but I can't have my poor old lion ill-treated."
In short, let Count Thorn talk as he pleased, the King was not to be persuaded; and like most people who are fond of having their own way, he had to pay dearly for it in the end, as you shall see.
One night, having gone to bed later than usual, he had a strange dream. He thought that he was lying on the bed with his uniform coat on, and that a servant came into the room, and began to brush his sleeve with a hard brush. Presently the man passed from the sleeve to the hand that hung out of it, and rasped the skin with the rough bristles until it grew so painful that the King could bear it no longer, but gave a start and a cry, and—awoke.
For a moment he hardly knew whether he was still dreaming or not. His left hand was hanging over the side of the bed, and something hard and prickly was rasping it and making it painful; but that something was the rough tongue of the lion, which had crept softly into the room (the King having for once forgotten to shut his door), and was licking the outstretched hand, which was just beginning to bleed!
At this taste of fresh blood—the first he had ever had—the beast's fierce nature suddenly awoke. Already his mane was beginning to bristle, and his tail to jerk restlessly to and fro, and his great yellow eyes to flash fire. Bitterly enough, now that it was too late, did the poor King recall his old friend's warning, which he had treated so lightly. He was utterly alone, far from all help, and before him was no longer his tame, affectionate favorite, but a raging beast of prey.