The driver fought for an instant, foolishly, to bring the car back onto the road; then he flung himself forward and down in front of his seat. Von Forstner, who had grabbed at Ruth too late, had been held standing up when the car turned over. He tried to get down. Ruth could feel him—she could not look up—as he tumbled half upon her, half beside her. She heard him scream—a frightful, hoarse man’s scream of mad rage as he saw he was caught. Then the car was all the way over; it crushed, scraped, slid, swung, turned over; was on its wheels for a flash; at least air and light were above again; it pounded, smashed, and slid through brush, against small trees; and was over once more. It ground and skewed in soft soil, horribly; cold water splashed below it. It settled, sucking, and stopped.
The sound of water washing against metal; for a moment the hiss of the water on the hot engine; then only the gurgle and rush of the little brook.
Ruth lay upon her back in the stream with the floor of the car above her; below her was von Forstner’s form, and about him were the snapped ribs of the top with the fabric like a black shroud.
At first he was alive and his face was not under water; for he shouted frantic oaths, threats, appeals for help. Wildly he cursed Ruth; his back was broken, he said. He seemed to struggle at first, not so much to free himself as to grasp and choke her. Then the back of the car dammed the water and it rose above his face. He coughed and thrashed to lift himself; he begged Ruth to help him; and, turning as far about as she could, she tried to lift his head with her hands, but she could not. The water covered him; and, after a few moments, he was quite still.
The dam at the back of the car, which had caused the pool to rise that high, failed to hold the water much higher; it ran out of the sides of the car before it covered Ruth. It soaked her through; and the weight of the machine held her quite helpless. But she had air and could breathe.
From the forward seat came no sound and no movement. The driver either had been flung out in one of the tumbles of the car or, like his master, he had been killed under it. Ruth could only wonder which.
But someone was coming down the embankment from the road now; more than one person; several. Ruth could hear their movements through the underbrush. Now they talked together—timidly, it seemed, and at a little distance. Now they approached, still timidly and talking.
These were men’s voices, but strange in intonations and in language. It was not German, or French, or any tongue with which Ruth was at all familiar. It must be Russian. The timid men were Russians—some of the slaves!
One of them touched the car and, kneeling, peered under it.