Could it be possible that the man who was driving was some insane creature, carrying him to destruction?
Every possible explanation, save the right one, flashed through his mind as he sat there, utterly powerless to help himself, yet almost crazed with anxiety and suspense.
He shouted himself hoarse, without eliciting the slightest response or attention.
He leaned as far out of the carriage as he was able, to look at the man on the box, but could only dimly distinguish a figure muffled to the ears in a huge ulster, but as motionless as a statue, except for that periodical swing of his right arm in wielding the whip.
Geoffrey dared not leap out, even though in his desperation he was strongly tempted to do so; he realized that such a hazardous proceeding might result in instant death, while there was no way by which he could climb to the top of the carriage to reach the driver; there was nothing that he could do but submit to the inevitable, and await further developments.
So, wearied out and thoroughly chilled by the keen night air, he first stuffed one of the cushions into the broken window, then sank back into a corner, and surrendered himself to his fate.
For three long hours he sat there and was driven at a rapid pace, knowing not whither he was going.
At last, to his infinite relief, the carriage stopped.
Taking instant advantage of this circumstance, Geoffrey leaped to the ground, and turning furiously to the driver, he demanded what he meant by bringing him there.
The man might have been a deaf mute for all the notice he took of either the young man’s question or passion.