My brain was whirling like a windmill as I walked, trying to think of some manner of escape.

To cry out, so long as we were far from houses, would be suicidal, for it would be easy for the ruffians to knife me or to gag me and fling me into a ditch.

On the other hand, to attempt to stop strangers and explain the situation was impossible, because of the frantic folly of the situation itself.

Long before I had persuaded the chance postman or carrier of so absurd a story, my companions would certainly have got off themselves, and in all probability would have carried me off, as a friend of theirs who had the misfortune to be mad or drunk.

The last thought, however, was an inspiration; though a very terrible one.