in the same
manner: then discretion is thrown to the winds; the owner is fiercely
ripped open and possession taken of the property.

Might is right, says the beast; or, rather, it knows no right. The
animal world is a rout of appetites, acknowledging no other rein than
impotence. Mankind, alone capable of emerging from the slough of the
instincts, is bringing equity into being, is creating it slowly as its
conception grows clearer. Out of the sacred rushlight, so flickering as
yet, but gaining strength from age to age, man will make a flaming torch
that will put an end, among us, to the principles of the brutes and, one
day, utterly change the face of society.

CHAPTER XV: THE LABYRINTH SPIDER

While the Epeirae, with their gorgeous net-tapestries, are incomparable
weavers, many other Spiders excel in ingenious devices for filling their
stomachs and leaving a lineage behind them: the two primary laws of
living things. Some of them are celebrities of long-standing renown, who
are mentioned in all the books.

Certain Mygales {36} inhabit a burrow, like the Narbonne Lycosa, but of a
perfection unknown to the brutal Spider of the waste-lands. The Lycosa
surrounds the mouth of her shaft with a simple parapet, a mere collection
of tiny pebbles, sticks and silk; the others fix a movable door to
theirs, a round shutter with a hinge, a groove and a set of bolts. When
the Mygale comes home, the lid drops into the groove and fits so exactly
that there is no possibility of distinguishing the join. If the
aggressor persist and seek to raise the trap-door, the recluse pushes the
bolt, that is to say, plants her claws into certain holes on the opposite
side to the hinge, props herself against the wall and holds the door
firmly.

Another, the Argyroneta, or Water Spider, builds herself an elegant
silken diving-bell, in which she stores air. Thus supplied with the
wherewithal to breathe, she awaits the coming of the game and keeps
herself cool meanwhile. At times of scorching heat, hers must be a
regular sybaritic abode, such as eccentric man has sometimes ventured to
build under water, with mighty blocks of stone and marble. The submarine
palaces of Tiberius are no more than an odious memory; the Water Spider's
dainty cupola still flourishes.

If I possessed documents derived from personal observation, I should like
to speak of these ingenious workers; I would gladly add a few unpublished
facts to their life-hi