174 THE BEE-MASTER OF WARRILOW 
she finally gives it up and turns on her tracks, 
bewildered and panic-stricken, only to rush 
straight into the midst of more foes. 
The end is always the same. Another of the 
stalwarts spies her, and in a moment the two are 
locked in berserk conflict. Together they drop 
down between the combs and thud to the bottom of 
the hive. Here it is hard to tell what happens. 
The fight is so fierce and sharp, and the two whirl 
round and tumble over and over together so wildly 
that you can make out little else than a spinning 
blur of brown and yellow. A great bright drop of 
honey flies off: in her extremity the wasp has dis- 
gorged her spoils. Perhaps for an instant the 
warriors may get wedged up in a corner, and then 
you may see that they are not lunging at random 
with their stilettos, but each is trying for a side- 
thrust on the body; these mail-clad creatures are 
vulnerable to each other only at one point—the 
spiracles, or breathing-holes. Often the wasp deals 
the first fatal blow, and the bee drops off mortally 
hurt. She may even dispose of three or four of her 
assailants thus in quick succession. But each time 
another bee closes with her at once. For the wasp 
there can only be one end to it. Sooner or later 
she gets the finishing stroke. 
And then there follows a grim little comedy. The 
bee, torn and ragged as she is from the incessant 
gnashing of those razor-edged yellow jaws, never- 
theless pauses not a moment. She grips her dying 
adversary by the base of the wing, and struggles off 
with her towards the entrance of the hive. It isa 
hard job, but she succeeds at last. Alternately 
pushing her burden before her, or dragging it 
