Surely they could not want her like this, pale and
distraught. Surely they had some conscience. The two riders stopped
just in front of her, addressing each other as if she did not exist.
"What d'ya think?" said the first in a heavy cockney. He was a
smallish, heavy-set man with a nondescript face and yellow teeth.
"Would be a fine catch, and no mistake." His companion, a lean,
dour-looking man with drooping red moustaches, did not at first reply,
but only continued to stare at the object in question.
"I think," he said at length, dismounting. "That I want you to hold my
horse." The smaller man laughed harshly, and spurred his own steed
forward to take hold of the reins.
"Just be sure ya save some for me," he said. "I don't fancy ridin' a
dead horse." The red-haired man began to advance, as Mary backed away
in rising horror.
"Please," she said in a pathetic voice. "Don't do this." But her words
had no effect. The man seized her by the arms, and after a moment's
indecision, threw her to the ground.
And then he was upon her, tearing at the buttons of her dress,
pressing her body hard against the stony track.
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