“You won’t get away anyway.”
They jostled one another as they pulled Elisaveta about, each towards himself; and acted altogether awkwardly, as if they did not know who should begin and how. Their sensual panting bared their white teeth, vigorous as those of a wild beast. The beauty of the half-naked, swarthy man tempted Elisaveta—it was a sudden piquant temptation acting like a poison.
The handsome man, his voice hoarse with agitation, shouted:
“Tear her clothes! Let her dance naked before us, and make our eyes glad.”
“She hasn’t much on!” the other responded with a gay laugh.
He caught the broad collar of Elisaveta’s dress with one hand and jerked it forward; he thrust the other hand, large, hot, and perspiring, under her chemise and pressed and squeezed her taut young breast.
“Two men against one woman—aren’t you ashamed?” said Elisaveta.
“Don’t be ashamed, my lass, and lie down on the grass,” exclaimed the handsome, swarthy one, with a laugh very much like a horse’s neigh. His white teeth gleamed, his eyes flamed with desire, as he tore Elisaveta’s clothes with his hands and his teeth. The red and the white roses of her body were soon bared.
The sensual breathing of the assailants was horrible and repugnant to her, and she found it no less horrible and repugnant to look at their perspiring faces, at the gleaming of their enkindled eyes. But their beauty was tempting. In the dark depths of her consciousness a thought struggled—to yield herself, to yield willingly.
Her dress and chemise, flimsy of texture, ripped with a barely audible noise. Elisaveta struggled desperately, and shouted something—she did not remember what.