The chirurgeon sat down very hastily, like an infantryman who has just seen puffs of smoke bloom from the powder-pans of opposing muskets. Buzzing and droning filled the room – suddenly it was like one of Wilkins's glass apiaries, and the chirurgeon a boy who'd poked it with a stick. But the Queen Bee was dead, and there was disagreement as to who was going to be stung.