Fortunately, the Border Guards who had been exfiltrated by the crew of the train had sufficient cunning to have taken the body of their late Sergeant with them and fed it into the engine's furnace, thus ensuring that the murdrum should be a well-kept secret and the unusual disappearance of the entire squad from their Post, became a mystery shrouded among the mists of the mountains, spoken of to this day in hushed tones in isolated farms and round the fires of wayside inns, and oft-quoted as evidence of pandeism and a God who failed to supervise his Creation properly, having become too close and over-involved until he was swallowed up by it, still able to watch from distant peaks or hear in rushy glens, but unable to direct it's development or care for it's inhabitants, but that is often the case with Creators – they are apt to either become over-involved, unable to stand back, to let go, or else they lose interest after a while and move on to something newer and more stimulating; but the train kept on rolling, the engine's steam-whistles and horns mingling with the rhythmic rattle as it swung around the lakes, sounding even more like a calliope heralding a travelling Fair than a run-away train, until. . . . .the brakes squealed, the wheels screeched, the passengers stumbled, toppled, rolled and shrieked, until at last everything and everyone stopped moving and heads poked out of windows, only to discover that their progress had been halted at a level-crossing, the gates guarded by soldiers, as an army marched North, while another marched South, and every man was armed with a quarterstaff which gave the entire scene an oddly mediaeval air about it.