I90 THE LIFE OF THE BEE 



of a July or August sun, the drones will appear on the 

 threshold. They have a helmet made of enormous black 

 pearls, two lofty, quivering plumes, a doublet of iridescent, 

 yellowish velvet, an heroic tuft, and a fourfold mantle, 

 translucent and rigid. They create a prodigious stir, brush 

 the sentry aside, overturn the cleaners, and collide with the 

 foragers as these return, laden with their humble spoil. 

 They have the busy air, the extravagant, contemptuous 

 gait of indispensable gods who should be simultaneously 

 venturing towards some destiny unknown to the vulgar. 

 One by one they sail off into space, irresistible, glorious, 

 and tranquilly make for the nearest flowers, where they 

 sleep till the afternoon freshness awake them. Then, with 

 the same majestic pomp, and still overflowing with magnifi- 

 cent schemes, they return to the hive, go straight to the 

 cells, plunge their head to the neck in the vats of honey, 

 and fill themselves tight as a drum to repair their exhausted 

 strength ; whereupon, with heavy steps, they go forth to 

 meet the good, dreamless, and careless slumber that shall 

 fold them in its embrace till the time for the next repast. 



97 

 But the patience of the bees is not equal to that of 

 men. One morning the long-expected word of command 

 goes through the hive ; and the peaceful workers turn into 

 judges and executioners. Whence this word issues we know 

 not ; it would seem to emanate suddenly from the cold, 

 deliberate, indignation of the workers ; and no sooner has 

 it been uttered than every heart throbs with it, inspired 



