The Bees pay no heed to their redoubtable neighbour. They flutter around the trellised enclosure; from time to time they go and take a sip from the honeyed flowers, sometimes quite close to the Spider, not a quarter of an inch away. They seem utterly unaware of their danger. The experience of centuries has taught them nothing about the terrible cut-throat. The Thomisus, on her side, waits motionless on a spike of lavender, near the honey. Her four front legs, which are longer than the others, are spread out and slightly raised, in readiness for attack. A Bee comes to drink at the drop of honey. This is the moment. The Spider springs forward and with her fangs seizes the imprudent one by the tip of the wings, while her legs hold the victim in a tight embrace. A few seconds pass, during which the Bee struggles as best she can against the aggressor on her back, out of the reach of her dagger. This fight at close quarters cannot last long; the Bee would release herself from the other’s grip. And so the Spider lets go the wing and suddenly bites her prey in the back of the neck. Once the fangs drive home, it is all over: death ensues. The Bee is slain. Of her turbulent activity naught lingers but some faint quivers of the tarsi, final convulsions which are soon at an end. Still holding her prey by the nape of the neck, the Thomisus feasts not on the body, which remains intact, but on the blood, which is slowly sucked. When the neck is drained dry, another spot is attacked, on the abdomen, the thorax, anywhere. This explains why my observations in the open air showed me the Thomisus with her fangs fixed now in the neck, now in some other part of the Bee. In the first case, the capture was a recent one and the murderess still retained her original posture; in the second case, it had been made some time before; and the Spider had forsaken the wound in the head, now sucked dry, to bite into some other juicy part, no matter which. Thus shifting her fangs, a trifle this way or that, as she drains her prey, the little ogress gorges on her victim’s blood with voluptuous deliberation. I have seen the meal last for seven consecutive hours; and even then the prey was let go only because of the shock given to its devourer by my indiscreet examination. The abandoned corpse, a carcass of no value to the Spider, is not dismembered in any way. There is not a trace of bitten flesh, not a wound that shows. The Bee is drained of her blood; and that is all. My friend Bull, when he was alive, used to catch an enemy whose teeth threatened danger by the skin of the neck. His method is in general use throughout the canine race. There, in front of you, is a growling pair of jaws, open, white with foam, ready to bite. The most elementary prudence advises you to keep them quiet by catching hold of the back of the neck.