70 THE BEE-MASTER OF WARRILOW 
carried with it a certain stress and bustle. The 
great centrifugal extractor would be roaring half 
the night through, emptying the super-combs, which 
were to be put back into the hives on the morrow, 
and refilled by the bees. But here, on the moors, 
modern bee-science is powerless to hurry the work 
of the sunshine. The thick heather-honey defies 
the extracting-machine, and cannot be separated 
without destroying the comb. Moorland honey— 
except where the wild sage is plentiful enough to 
thin down the heather sweets—must be left in the 
virgin comb; and the bee-man can do little more 
than look on as vigilantly as may be at the work of 
his singing battalions, and keep the storage-space 
of the hives always well in advance of their need. 
Yet there is one danger—contingent at all 
seasons of bee-life, but doubly to be guarded 
against during the critical time of the honey-flow. 
As we loitered round the great circle, the old bee- 
keeper halted in the rear of every hive to watch the 
contending streams of workers, the one rippling 
out into the blue air and sunshine, the other setting 
more steadily homeward, each bee weighed down 
with her load of nectar and pale grey pollen, as she 
scrambled desperately through the opposing crowd 
and vanished into the seething darkness within. 
As we passed each hive, the old bee-man carefully 
noted its strength and spirit, comparing it with the 
condition of its neighbours on either hand. At 
last he stopped by one of the largest hives, and 
pointed to it significantly. 
“Can ye see aught amiss?” he asked, hastily 
rolling his shirt-sleeves up to the armpit. 
I looked, but could detect nothing wrong. The 
