And it was not until the first of the villagers was within twenty yards that the nine suspected anything. Then they heard the buzzing. Looking closer, they saw that it was—an attack!
"Stop!" cried Deltos, in swift panic. "We are friends, not enemies!"
It was like talking to the wind. The villagers had their choice of two fears: either fight the strangers with the magic flower, or—be stung to death. And no one can blame them for what they chose.
The nine had time enough to snatch knives or hatchets from their belts, or clubs from the ground. Then, with wild cries of fear, the natives closed in. They fought as only desperate people can fight, caught between two fires. And they were two hundred to nine!
In half a minute the first of the invaders was down, his head crushed by a mattock in the hands of a bee-tormented native. In a single minute all were gone but two; and a moment later, Deltos alone, because he had chanced to secure a long club, was alive of all that crew.
For a minute he kept them off by sheer strength. He swung the stick with such vigor that he fairly cleared a circle for himself. The natives paused, howling and shrieking, before the final rush.
An inspiration came to Deltos. He tore his cap from his head and his net from his face.
"Look!" he screamed, above the uproar. "I am a man, like yourselves! Do not kill!"
Next second he froze in his tracks. The next he was writhing in the death agony, and the bees were supreme once.
Supreme herself had stung Deltos.