The car gave a jump. It climbed. The narrow irons received the sucking, skidding wheels, with an evil, maliciously hypocritical sound.
Blood was trickling from Freder’s lips.
“Don’t—don’t put the brake on—for God’s sake don’t put the brake on!” shouted the man beside him making a clutch of madness at Freder’s hand. The car, already half-slipping, shot forward again. A split in the frame-work—over, onwards. Behind them the dead frame-work crashed into space amid shrieks.
They reached the other side with an impetus which was no longer to be checked. The wheels rushed into blackness and nothing. The car over-turned. Freder fell and got up again. The other remained lying.
“Josaphat—!!”
“Run! It’s nothing!—I swear to God it’s nothing!” a distorted smile upon the white face. “Think of Maria—and run!”
And Freder raced off.
Josaphat turned his head. He saw the blackness of the street flashing bright red. He heard the screams of the thousands. He thought dully, with a thrust of his fist in the air: “Shouldn’t I like to be Grot now, to be able to swear properly....”
Then his head fell back into the filth of the street, and every consciousness faded but that of pain....
But Freder ran as he had never run. It was not his feet which carried him. It was his wild heart—it was his thoughts.