“What’n hell’s this mean?” he demanded.
“Don’t move and don’t shout,” said the Messenger. “If you do I’ll have to gag you. I’m only going over there to take a look at your bees.”
The pallor on the man’s face was dreadful, but he continued to stare at the Messenger coolly enough.
“It’s a damned outrage!” he began thickly. “I had a pass from your Colonel——”
“If you don’t keep quiet I’ll have to tie up your face,” observed the Messenger, dismounting and flinging aside her cloak.
Then, as she walked toward the little row of beehives, carrying only her riding whip, the farmer’s eyes grew round and a dull flush empurpled his face and neck.
“By God!” he gasped; “it’s her!” and said not another word.
She advanced cautiously toward the hives; very carefully, with the butt of her whip, she closed the sliding door over every exit, then seated herself in the grass within arm’s length of the hives and, crossing her spurred boots, leaned forward, expectant, motionless.
A bee arrived, plunder-laden, dropped on the sill and began to walk toward the closed entrance of his hive. Finding it blocked, the insect buzzed angrily. Another bee whizzed by her and lit on the sill of another hive; another came, another, and another.
Very gingerly, as each insect alighted, she raised the sliding door and let it enter. Deal watched her, fascinated.