THE BEE-MASTER OF WARRILOW 21 
machinery, and the intermittent cough of the oil- 
engine reached us only as a subdued, tranquil 
murmur—the very voice of rest. 
The bee-master closed the window behind its thick 
bee-proof curtains, and, putting his gun away in a 
corner, drew a comfortable high-backed settle near 
to the cheery blaze. Then he disappeared for a 
moment, and returned with a dusty cobweb-shrouded 
bottle, which he carried in a wicker cradle as a 
butler would bear priceless old wine. The cork 
came out with a ringing jubilant report, and the 
pale, straw-coloured liquid foamed into the glasses 
like champagne. It stilled at once, leaving the 
whole inner surface of the glass veneered with 
golden bells. The old bee-man held it up critically 
against the light. 
‘ The last of 19—,’’ he said, regretfully. ‘‘ The 
finest mead year in this part of the country for 
many a decade back. Most people have never 
tasted the old Anglo-Saxon drink that King Alfred 
loved, and probably Harold’s men made merry with 
on the eve of Hastings. So they can’t be expected 
to know that metheglin varies with each season as 
much as wine from the grape.” 
Of the goodness of the liquor there admitted no 
question. It had the bouquet of a ripe Ribston 
pippin, and the potency of East Indian sherry thrice 
round the Horn. But its flavour entirely eluded 
all attempt at comparison. There was a sugges- 
tive note of fine old perry about it, and a dim 
reminder of certain almost colourless Rhenish wines, 
never imported, and only to be encountered in 
moments of rare and happy chance. Yet neither of 
these parallels came within a sunbeam’s length of 
