But in vain did she struggle with both hands to remove his hairless arm; in vain, with a voice in which terror and grief were quivering, did she implore him not to be what he was, and to have pity on her.

Sated with wine, his breath blew around her nearer and nearer, and his face was there near her face.

He was no longer the former kind Vinicius, almost dear to her soul; he was a drunken, wicked satyr, who filled her with repulsion and terror.

But her strength deserted her more and more.

In vain did she bend and turn away her face to escape his kisses.