At the bottom of this devil's purse remains a heap of the dead and dying, of severed limbs and wing-covers torn off; the inevitable sequels of the frantic orgy.

Soon the woodlice, earwigs, and ants will appear to prey upon the injured.
What are these insects doing?
Were they the prisoners of the flower, converted into a trap which allowed them to enter but prevented their escape by means of a palisade of converging hairs?
No, they were not prisoners; they had full liberty to escape, as is proved by the final exodus, which is in no way impeded.

Deceived by a fallacious odour, were they endeavouring to lay and establish their eggs as they would have done under the shelter of a corpse?
No; there is no trace of eggs in the purse of the Arum.

They came convoked by the odour of a decaying body, their supreme delight; an intoxication seized them, and they rushed into the eddying swarm to take part in a festival of carrion-eaters.
I was anxious to count the number of those attracted.

At the height of the bacchanal I emptied the purse into a bottle.