Not one succeeds.

They are scarcely half buried before some beetle runs to them and destroys them by an eviscerating wound.
If this massacre did not occur in a dumb world we should hear all the horrible tumult of the slaughter-houses of Chicago.

But only the ear of the mind can hear the shrieks and lamentations of the eviscerated victims.

For myself, I possess this ear, and am full of remorse for having provoked such sufferings.
Now the beetles are rummaging in all directions through the heap of dead and dying, each tugging and tearing at a morsel which he carries off to swallow in peace, away from the inquisitive eyes of his fellows.
This mouthful disposed of, another is hastily cut from the body of some victim, and the process is repeated so long as there are bodies left.

In a few minutes the procession is reduced to a few shreds of still palpitating flesh.
There were a hundred and fifty caterpillars; the butchers were twenty-five.