With a vicious twist Original wrenched the rifle from her hands. Up shot her right hand before he could imprison it and four red slashes leaped from eyes to chin across the man's face.
He laughed, but there was no humor in that laugh. Now he had an arm about her waist, and her right hand was gripped in the vise of his fingers. She felt his muscles straining against hers. His breath was hot upon her cheek. Slowly, slowly her right arm was being brought up behind her back.
Hilma writhed and her left hand, clenched, beat at his eyes, pounded on his cheek. Something deeper and more consuming than the rage in her whipped her body to exert almost demoniac strength. For through the mist of battle her brain read clearly that in the issue she herself had forced—in the test for which she alone was responsible—this man was inexorably imposing his mastery over her. He was breaking her; all the rebellious and self- centered creature called Hilma Ring was being crushed in the press of crude force.
Now burning pains began to shoot up the tortured right arm. It seemed packed in burning coals. Surely in another instant bones would break.
