"That is the truth," said the Queen's voice behind them. They had
not heard the heavy royal footfall which sets empty cells
vibrating. Sacharissa offered her food at once. She ate and
dragged her weary body forward. "Can you suggest a remedy?" she
said.
"New principles!" cried the Wax-moth from her crevice. "We'll
apply them quietly later."
"Suppose we sent out a swarm?" Melissa suggested. "It's a little
late, but it might ease us off."
"It would save us, but--I know the Hive! You shall see for
yourself." The old Queen cried the Swarming Cry, which to a bee
of good blood should be what the trumpet was to Job's war-horse.
In spite of her immense age (three, years), it rang between the
canon-like frames as a pibroch rings in a mountain pass; the
fanners changed their note, and repeated it up in every gallery;
and the broad-winged drones, burly and eager, ended it on one
nerve-thrilling outbreak of bugles: "La Reine le veult! Swarm!
Swar-rm! Swar-r-rm!"
But the roar which should follow the Call was wanting.
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