confusion, and thought he might turn it to good account.
“My dear Clara,” he began — presuming on his relationship to address her by her Christian name,” I owe you an apology. The fact is, I was carried away by my feelings, for you know I have very strong opinions on morality. But I see now I was wrong. If my brother chooses to go away to India and leave a pretty little wife behind him, a widow in everything but name — it is but likely that her natural passions will break out now and then, and she will throw herself into the arms of the first good-looking fellow she meets.
“I do not understand you, sir,” replied Mrs. Sinclair coldly. “You have intruded into my house in a most unwarrantable manner, and if I do not have you ejected it is only because I do not want to create a scandal, but I must beg that whilst you are here you will recollect who I am, and treat me with proper respect.”
“Oh, yes,” he replied with mock gravity, “and you might also treat me properly. You might remember that I am your husband's brother, and so like him that you might easily mistake me for him if you tried,” — and he accompanied this sentence with a satyric leer.
“Sir!” cried Mrs. Sinclair. “It is very evident that you mean to insult me, and that you take me for one of those loose women whose society you frequent though all the world thinks you a very moral man.”
“Well,” he replied angrily, “if I am a hypocrite I am not the only one. You are not so overchaste when you are alone with a man in a railway carriage, and as we are both hypocrites, and both like to have a little bit of kypher when we can get it without anybody knowing about it, we might just as well enjoy a bit together;” and he leered at her again.
“I will not stay to be insulted,” cried Mrs. Sinclair. “You do not know the truth, or I cannot believe that you would make such unjust statements. It is true that the man who was in the carriage with me did have me as you would call it, but it was against my will and consent, and I made as much resistance to him as I possibly could.”
“Even to the extent of pulling the alarm signal,” said her brother-in-law with a grin.
“I was unable to do so,” she replied, “but as I do not consider myself bound to account to you for my actions, I shall say no more.”
“At all events you might have informed the guard when the train stopped.”
“I am the best judge of my own actions,” she said coldly, “and if I did not choose to make a scandal that is my affair.”
He was silent for a moment, and then he rose from his chair, and held out his hand. She also rose, but did not attempt to take the proffered hand. He moved towards the door, and she followed him, but he suddenly turned, and catching her round the waist threw her on the sofa. She resisted desperately, but he was a powerfully-built man and he easily forced her down.
“You didn't mind being raped once, you little whore,” he hissed through his teeth, “and so I don't see why you should mind it twice, at all events I mean to have you.”
With one of his big hands he held her down, whilst with the other he unbuttoned his trousers and pulled out a stiff standing tool of even larger proportions than that of the painter, and turning up her clothes, tried to separate her thighs which she pressed closely together. She did not scream, but she fought like a wild cat, and proved the truth of the saying that a man cannot put a sword in its sheath if the sheath keeps moving about. He did not start with the advantage that Brandon had, and great as his strength was he could not hold all her limbs at once and prevent her wriggling about.
Her underclothing was in a frightful state, the pink silk petticoat she had put on, being torn in several places, and her clean white drawers nearly wrenched from the strings that attached them to her waist.
The sight and odour of this underlinen seemed to madden the ravisher, whose pent-up unchastity now assumed absolute dominion over him. He resembled more a heat-maddened bull, or a stallion in rut, with his erect, flaming member thrusting vainly away at the panting creature in his grasp. And valiantly did she resist, with never a cry, fearing the shameful scandal should a servant appear.
“You filthy beast, let me go,” she panted out in a hoarse whisper. “My husband will shoot you when he hears of this.”
She wriggled and squirmed about like a snake, to get away, her shapely black-stockinged legs and prettily slippered feet high in the air and, kicking against the heavy table near by and which served as a lever for her efforts, she tried to push his member away with her hand, brushing against the thick mass of hair that surrounded his organs, as she did so.
“You bitch,” he murmured, “let me put it in. No one will ever know. Good God! How I have longed for you! Have pity!
But she broke away from him, taking advantage of his temporary sentimentality, and ran quickly round the table, making for the door at the far end of the room. He was too sharp for her however, and, his shirt front all crumpled, the collar torn, waistcoat and trousers disarranged, the organ still in a state of violent turgescence, his eyes bloodshot and half-starting out of his head, he managed again to seize hold of her just as she had put out her hand to pull open the door. With a blasphemous oath, he flung both arms around her, and struggling, kicking, turning, twisting, he bore her back to the sofa.
“Let me go, you fiend, I hate you!” she said. “Let me go or I'll tear out your eyes.” But her strength was fast failing her, while determination to effect his purpose increased with her resistance, and made her only the more desirable. Already he had succeeded in putting one brawny knee between her thighs and with the other was furiously rubbing her genital parts; his face was pressed against hers and his hot breath scorched her like fire. She felt herself growing weaker, but the thought of this man's cruelty in the train — the terrible humiliation — the pain and exposure, gave her fresh strength.
The struggle had lasted long, but finally fate decided it in her favour. He had succeed in forcing her legs well apart, and she was protecting her slit with both hands. As he tried to insert his huge member, it encountered her fingers, and she, with the energy of desperation, grasped it in her hand and exerting all her strength, bent it.
With a terrible cry, he staggered to an easy chair, and fell into it nearly fainting. She did not realize what she had done, and did not know till afterwards that she had dislocated his penis — a rare but exceedingly painful accident, the few instances of which that are known to have occurred having invariably ended fatally.
She saw at once that she had no longer anything to fear from him. He had fallen into an armchair, with his huge body drawn up, and was moaning.
Her first instinct was to run away and leave him, but she was a tenderhearted woman, and though he had twice made an assault upon her, she could not leave him in agony.
She went quickly to her bed-room, and as rapidly as she could, smoothed her hair, and did away with all traces of the struggle in which she had participated. Then snatching a coverlet from the bed, she went down to the drawing-room, and threw it over his legs, thus hiding the wounded member.
She then called one of the servants and sent her for a doctor who lived close by. The doctor was an old friend of hers, and when he came, she met him in the hall, and in a few words explained what had occurred.
He examined Mr. Sinclair, and said he must be removed to the hospital at once, and calling his coachman they half led him, half carried him downstairs and placed him in the doctor's brougham.
At the hospital, they were unable to do anything for him except give injections of morphia to allay the intolerable pain. Several operations were tried by the Glasgow surgeons, who have the reputation of being amongst the cleverest in the world, but nothing was of any use, symptoms of gangrene soon manifested themselves, and in less than a week “holy Mr. Sinclair” was dead.
In England, a false regard for Mother Grundy hushes them up, but we know of many cases which are highly instructive. For instance, the Le Bien Public (May 22, 1878) gave the following account of a trial before the Court of Assizes (Department of Var, France):
The delicate operation that the learned Abelard was forced to suffer at the hands of Canon Fulbert is a well- known historical fact. Henri Latour, of Meones (Var) has narrowly escaped becoming the victim of a similar mutilation. This man had been acquainted for about a year with a young orphan girl, Claire Grimaud. She was a hard-working young girl. It was not long before she perceived that she was in the family way, and she informed her lover of it, who, she affirms, thereupon promised to marry her.
“But, on the 29'“ of last December, in the evening, Latour went to see Mlle Grimaud, whom he found alone, when she remarked:
“You have come at last.”
