ned love, duty and conscience insisted
that he should save the girl from the snare that was being set for her.
The great renunciation must be made; he, Westray, must marry beneath
him, but before doing so he would take his mother into his confidence,
though there is no record of Perseus doing as much before he cut loose
Andromeda.

Meanwhile, no time must be lost; he would start this very night. The
last train for London had already left, but he would walk to Cullerne
Road Station and catch the night-mail from thence. He liked walking,
and need take no luggage, for there were things that he could use at his
mother's house. It was seven o'clock when he came to this resolve, and
an hour later he had left the last house in Cullerne behind him, and
entered upon his night excursion.

The line of the Roman way which connected Carauna (Carisbury) with its
port Culurnum (Cullerne) is still followed by the modern road, and runs
as nearly straight as may be for the sixteen miles which separate those
places. About half-way between them the Great Southern main line
crosses the highway at right angles, and here is Cullerne Road Station.
The first half of the way runs across a flat sandy tract called Mallory
Heath, where the short greensward encroaches on the road, and where the
eye roaming east or west or north can discern nothing except a limitless
expanse of heather, broken here and there by patches of gorse and
bracken, or by clumps of touselled and wind-thinned pines and Scotch
firs. The tawny-coloured, sandy, track is difficult to follow in the
dark, and there are posts set up at intervals on the skirts of the way
for travellers' guidance. These posts show out white against a starless
night, and dark against the snow which sometimes covers the heath with a
silvery sheet.

On a clear night the traveller can see the far-off lamps of the station
at Cullerne Road a mile after he has left the old seaport town. They
stand out like a thin line of light in the distant darkness, a line
continuous at first, but afterwards resolvable into individual units of
lamps as he walks further along the straight road. Many a weary
wayfarer has watched those lamps hang changeless in the distance, and
chafed at their immobility. They seem to come no nearer to him for all
the milestones, with the distance from Hyde Park Corner graven in old
figures on their lichened faces, that he has passed. Only the
increasing sound of the trains tells