One of them runs forward; three, four, follow; the whole assembly is aroused; those who are buried emerge; the whole band of cut-throats falls upon the passing flock.

It is a sight never to be forgotten.

The mandibles of the beetles are at work in all directions; the procession is attacked in the van, in the rear, in the centre; the victims are wounded on the back or the belly at random.

The furry skins are gaping with wounds; their contents escape in knots of entrails, bright green with their aliment, the needles of the pine-tree; the caterpillars writhe, struggling with loop-like movements, gripping the sand with their feet, dribbling and gnashing their mandibles.

Those as yet unwounded are digging desperately in the attempt to take refuge underground.