The pot-bellied creature has been stung in the abdomen. There are cries of distress from the cymbals at the moment of the wound; and the insect falls on its side, with all the appearances of imminent death. Nevertheless the wounded Ephippiger makes a fight for it. At the end of two days, she is kicking so hard with her ataxic legs, incapable of locomotion, that the idea occurs to me to come to her assistance and doctor her up a little. I administer as a cordial, on the tip of a straw, some grape-juice, which is readily accepted. It seems as though the draught is effectual; the insect appears to be recovering. Nothing of the sort, alas! On the seventh day after the sting, the patient dies. The Scorpion’s sting is inexorable, for any insect, even of the strongest. One dies on the spot; another lingers for days; but all succumb in the end. Even though my Ephippiger were to survive for a week, I should know better than to ascribe this to my doctoring with grape-juice: the Grasshopper’s long resistance must be attributed to her temperament. We must consider above all things the gravity of the wound, which varies greatly according to the dose of poison injected. It is not in my power to regulate its emission: besides, the Scorpion is freakish in the flow of the poison from his phial: in one case he is stingy, and in another prodigal. For this reason the discrepancy is great between the data furnished by the Ephippiger. My notes speak of subjects succumbing after a brief interval, whereas others, more numerous, take a long time to die. Generally, the Grasshoppers resist better than the Locusts. The Ephippiger bears witness to this and, next to her, so does the White-faced Decticus, [26] the chief of the sword-bearing clan. The insect with the large mandibles and the ivory head is stabbed near the middle of the abdomen, on the dorsal surface. The wounded Decticus, apparently not gravely injured, walks about and tries to hop. Half an hour later, however, the poison is working. The abdomen is convulsed, curves into a wide hook and, with its open gap, incapable of closing, plows through the rough surface of the soil. The proud creature has become a pitiful cripple. Six hours later, the insect is lying on its side. It exhausts itself in unsuccessful attempts to rise on its feet. Little by little, the crisis subsides. On the second day, the Decticus is dead, really dead: not a limb stirs. Late in the afternoon, the great black-and-yellow Dragon-fly flies to and fro in a straight line, swiftly and silently, along the hedges. She is the corsair who levies tribute on all who navigate those peaceful waters. Her ardent life, her fiery activity point to a more delicate nervous system than that of the Locust, the placid ruminant of the pastures. And in fact, when stung by the Scorpion, she dies almost as quickly as the Praying Mantis.