"Ought we not to rush in and warn them?" whispered Cunora to Rolla.
"Surely the flower hath driven them mad!"
"Hush!" warned the older woman. "Be quiet! Everything depends upon
our silence!"
It was true. Only two of the villagers remained upon their feet, and
shortly one of these staggered and fell in his tracks. The one who
was left was Corrus himself, his immense vitality keeping him going.
Then he, too, after a final whoop of triumph and defiance,
absolutely unconscious of the poison-laden horde that surrounded
him, fell senseless to the earth. Another minute, and the whole
crowd was still.
AND THE FIRE HAD GONE OUT.
The bees came closer. Several thousands of them were stricken by
smoke from the embers, and the rest of the swarm took good care to
avoid it. They hovered over the prostrate forms of the aborigines
and made sure that they were unconscious.
"Is there nothing we can do?" whispered Cunora, straining her eyes
to see.
"Nothing, save to watch and wait," returned Rolla, her gaze fixed
upon the dark heap which marked her lover's form.
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