I tickle her gently with the tip of a long straw.  When at home, if teased in this way, the Banded Epeira—­like the others, for that matter—­violently shakes the web to intimidate the aggressor.  This time, nothing happens:  despite my repeated enticements, the Spider does not stir a limb.  It is as though she were numbed with terror.  And she has reason to be:  the other is watching her from her lofty loop-hole.

This is probably not the only cause of her fright.  When my straw does induce her to take a few steps, I see her lift her legs with some difficulty.  She tugs a bit, drags her tarsi till she almost breaks the supporting threads.  It is not the progress of an agile rope-walker; it is the hesitating gait of entangled feet.  Perhaps the lime-threads are stickier than in her own web.  The glue is of a different quality; and her sandals are not greased to the extent which the new degree of adhesiveness would demand.

Anyhow, things remain as they are for long hours on end:  the Banded Epeira motionless on the edge of the web; the other lurking in her hut; both apparently most uneasy.  At sunset, the lover of darkness plucks up courage.  She descends from her green tent and, without troubling about the stranger, goes straight to the centre of the web, where the telegraph-wire brings her.  Panic-stricken at this apparition, the Banded Epeira releases herself with a jerk and disappears in the rosemary-thicket.

The experiment, though repeatedly renewed with different subjects, gave me no other results.  Distrustful of a web dissimilar to her own, if not in structure, at least in stickiness, the bold Banded Epeira shows the white feather and refuses to attack the Cross Spider.  The latter, on her side, either does not budge from her day shelter in the foliage, or else rushes back to it, after taking a hurried glance at the stranger.  She here awaits the coming of the night.  Under favour of the darkness, which gives her fresh courage and activity, she reappears upon the scene and puts the intruder to flight by her mere presence, aided, if need be, by a cuff or two.  Injured right is the victor.

Morality is satisfied; but let us not congratulate the Spider therefore.  If the invader respects the invaded, it is because very serious reasons impel her.  First, she would have to contend with an adversary ensconced in a stronghold whose ambushes are unknown to the assailant.  Secondly, the web, if conquered, would be inconvenient to use, because of the lime-threads, possessing a different degree of stickiness from those which she knows so well.  To risk one’s skin for a thing of doubtful value were twice foolish.  The Spider knows this and forbears.

But let the Banded Epeira, deprived of her web, come upon that of one of her kind or of the Silky Epeira, who works her gummy twine in the same manner:  then discretion is thrown to the winds; the owner is fiercely ripped open and possession taken of the property.