He was fighting against three. Desperately he surged this way and that.
Even in the heat of battle he wondered a little why no one struck him;
they simply clung to him, and at length he could not move. His hands
were tied, not roughly, but surely. In all this commotion, not a
whisper, not a voice; only heavy breathing.
Then one of the three whistled. A minute or two after a closed carriage
came into the Krumerweg, and Carmichael was literally bundled inside.
His feet were now bound. Two of his captors sat on the forward seat,
while the third joined the driver. Carmichael could distinguish nothing
but outlines and shadows. He choked, for he was furious. To be trussed
like this, without any explanation whatever! What the devil was going
on? Unanswered.
The carriage began to move slowly. It had to; swift driving in the
Krumerweg was hardly possible and at no time safe. Carmichael set
himself to note the turns of the street. One turn after another he
counted, fixing as well as he could the topography of the town through
which they were passing. At last he realized that they were leaving
Dreiberg behind and were going down the mountain on the north side,
toward Jugendheit. Once the level road was reached, a fast pace was set
and maintained for miles.
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