But between the streams of lava, I saw some little violets still slightly perfumed, and I admit that I smelt them with delight. Perfume is the soul of the flower, and sea-flowers have no soul. We had arrived at the foot of some sturdy dragon-trees, which had pushed aside the rocks with their strong roots, when Ned Land exclaimed: “Ah! sir, a hive! a hive!” “A hive!” I replied, with a gesture of incredulity. “Yes, a hive,” repeated the Canadian, “and bees humming round it.” I approached, and was bound to believe my own eyes. There at a hole bored in one of the dragon-trees were some thousands of these ingenious insects, so common in all the Canaries, and whose produce is so much esteemed. Naturally enough, the Canadian wished to gather the honey, and I could not well oppose his wish. A quantity of dry leaves, mixed with sulphur, he lit with a spark from his flint, and he began to smoke out the bees. The humming ceased by degrees, and the hive eventually yielded several pounds of the sweetest honey, with which Ned Land filled his haversack. “When I have mixed this honey with the paste of the artocarpus,” said he, “I shall be able to offer you a succulent cake.” “’Pon my word,” said Conseil, “it will be gingerbread.” “Never mind the gingerbread,” said I; “let us continue our interesting walk.”