“Go your way,” he murmured, dejectedly. “Leave me quite alone. My work is done; I shall pass. Remember me sometimes when you cleave the air and salute the sun and our mysterious Master.”
By this time I was overcome with sorrow. My poor dear friend, the very personification of wisdom, seemed passing out of my life.
“No—don’t—please—don’t talk so mournfully!” I cried. “You will get well. Do! I so want you to stay with me.”
At this he seemed to stir a little and, with an effort, raised himself on his remaining legs.
“I cannot walk, you see. I cannot be sure of holding my weight on the combs, even if I am not bleeding to death.”
I was so shocked that it had not occurred to me to stanch his wound; but instantly I fell to it most vigorously.
“That will help,” he said. “Do you think I have done well with my life?” Crip asked. “Do you think I have helped our people?”
I answered that he had been wonderful—that he had worked faithfully for two houses, and all for the betterment of our race—the Bee.
“You really think me deserving? Then I am happy.”