No matter. Considering that the game has wings prompt in flight, the capture must be made with a suddenness which it seems to me hardly allows of obtaining paralysis without death. A Cerceris with its heavy weevil, a Sphex engaged with a corpulent grasshopper or a paunched ephippiger, an Ammophila holding its caterpillar by the nape of its neck, have all three the advantage over a prey too slow to avoid attack. They may take their time, choose at leisure the exact spot where the sting shall penetrate, and, in short, can act with the precision of a physiologist who uses his scalpel on a patient laid upon the operating table; but for the Bembex it is another matter. At the least alarm the prey is off, and its power of wing defies that of the pursuer. The Hymenopteron must pounce on its prey, without measuring its attack or calculating its blow, like a hawk hunting over the fallows. Mandibles, claws, sting—all weapons—must be used at the same moment in the hot battle, to end as fast as possible a struggle in which the least indecision would give the prey time to escape. If these conjectures agree with facts, the Bembex can only secure a dead body, or, at all events, a prey wounded to death. Well, my calculations are right. The Bembex attacks with an energy which would do honour to a bird of prey. To surprise one on the chase is no easy matter, and it would be useless to lay in a stock of patience and watch near the burrow, for the insect flies to a distance, and it is impossible to follow its rapid evolutions, and doubtless its manœuvres would be still unknown to me but for the help of an article from which I should assuredly never have expected a like service—namely, the umbrella which served me as a tent amid the sands of Issarts. I was not the only one to profit by its shade; my companions were usually numerous. Gadflies of different kinds would take refuge under the silken canopy, and roost peacefully here and there on the outspread silk, rarely failing to appear when the heat was overpowering. To pass the hours when I was unemployed, I used to observe with pleasure their great gilded eyes shining like carbuncles under my canopy, or their grave movements when some spot of their ceiling became too much heated, and they were forced to move a little way. One day—ping! ping! the tense silk was resounding like the parchment of a drum. Perhaps an acorn has fallen on my umbrella. Soon after, close together, came ping! ping! Has some idle jester come to disturb my solitude, and fling acorns or little pebbles on my umbrella? I came out of my tent and inspected the neighbourhood. Nothing! The blow was repeated. I looked upward, and the mystery was explained. The Bembecids of the neighbourhood, which prey on gadflies, had found out the rich store of food which was keeping me company, and were darting audaciously under my shelter to seize the gadflies on the ceiling. Nothing could have been better. I had only to keep quiet and observe.