Far up the vale, eight miles away, beneath a roof of cloud, the pass of Nant Francon gapes high in air between the great jaws of the Carnedd and the Glyder, its cliffs marked with the upright white line of the waterfall.

He is clear of the mountains; clear of that cursed place, and all its cursed thoughts! On, past Llandegai and all its rose-clad cottages; past yellow quarrymen walking out to their work, who stare as they pass at his haggard face, drenched clothes, and streaming hair.

He does not see them.

One fixed thought is in his mind, and that is, the railway station at Bangor.
He is striding through Bangor streets now, beside the summer sea, from which fresh scents of shore-weed greet him.

He had rather smell the smoke and gas of the Strand.
The station is shut.