We had turned in the right direction, for we did not have far to go before we heard an anxious voice panting, 'I'm here, here!', and we saw, once more, a flower as big as a room, this time a glowing ultramarine, where a little mannikin was struggling, apparently stuck in its funnel-like stigma.
'Well, well,' said Longhorn, glumly, 'this is just what I expected. This is a vincetoxicum, a fly-trap.'
And he directed his words to the ensnared creature: 'You are not the first to have met this fate.'
And Longhorn climbed nimbly into the sparkling blue corolla, leaning on the axils of the stem. Without delay and briskly he grasped the victim beneath the arms. Hup! - and at the same moment there was a hissing sound like silk tearing, the corolla sagged downward, and both the helper and the flower's prisoner rolled on to the lawn.
But before I could reach them under the broken herb, both had risen to their feet and were brushing pollen off themselves, so that the air was dusty with a glittering haze.
'But you are limping,' said Longhorn sternly to the shy creature he had saved.
'Just a little accident,' said the luckless one, glancing at the ravaged plant as if a sudden attack could still be expected. 'There was some kind of trap in there....'
'Never trust a flower,' Longhorn advised. 'Next time, think where you put your head.'
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