long day in front of him; and he liked to think it would not end for him
till nine o'clock.

'These summer days are endless,' he said.

After passing the strait the lake widened out. On the side the priest
was driving the shore was empty and barren. On the other side there were
pleasant woods and interspaces and castles. Castle Carra appeared, a
great ivy-grown ruin showing among thorn-bushes and ash-trees, at the
end of a headland. In bygone times the castle must have extended to the
water's edge, for on every side fragments of arches and old walls were
discovered hidden away in the thickets. Father Oliver knew the headland
well and every part of the old fortress. Many a time he had climbed up
the bare wall of the banqueting-hall to where a breach revealed a secret
staircase built between the walls, and followed the staircase to a long
straight passage, and down another staircase, in the hope of finding
matchlock pistols. Many a time he had wandered in the dungeons, and
listened to old stories of oubliettes.

The moat which once cut the neck of land was now dry and overgrown; the
gateway remained, but it was sinking--the earth claimed it. There were
the ruins of a great house a little way inland, to which no doubt the
descendants of the chieftain retired on the decline of brigandage; and
the rough hunting life of its semi-chieftains was figured by the
gigantic stone fox on a pillar in the middle of the courtyard and the
great hounds on either side of the gateway.

Castle Carra must have been the strongest castle in the district of
Tyrawley, and it was built maybe by the Welsh who invaded Ireland in the
thirteenth century, perhaps by William Barrett himself, who built
certainl y the castle on the island opposite to Father Oliver's house.

William Fion (i.e., the Fair) Barrett landed somewhere on the west
coast, and no doubt came up through the great gaps between Slieve Cairn
and Slieve Louan--it was not likely that he la nded on the east coast;
he could hardly have marched his horde across Ireland--and Father Oliver
imagined the Welshmen standing on the very hill on which his house now
stood, and Fion telling his followers to build a castle on each island.
Patsy Murphy, w ho knew more about the history of the country than
anybody, thought that Castle Carra was of later date, and spoke of the
Stantons, a fierce tribe. Over yonder was the famous causeway, and the
gross tragedy that was enacted there he yesterday hea