“A base, bloody, and brutal Saxon!”
“We have one of your countrymen residing in this part of the country—a Mr. Jyvecote.”
The stranger started. “Any of the Jyvecotes of Marston Moor, in Yorkshire?”
“The Jyvecote, I believe. He came over here about ten years ago to shoot, taking poor Mr. Bodkin Blake’s Lodge in the valley of Glendhanarrahsheen, and—”
“Oh! do say that word again, it is so delightfully soft—a cross between Italian and Japanese,” burst in the artist.
“Glendhanarrahsheen,” repeated Father Maurice. “We have some softer than that. What think you of Tharramacornigaun? But, as I was saying, Mr. Jyvecote liked the valley so much that he brought his family over in the following year. Mr. Jyvecote was delighted with the place, and he bought the Lodge, extended it, and at length determined upon building a castle. This castle—Moynalty Castle he calls it—was completed about three years ago, the bare walls alone costing seventy thousand pounds. Except the Viceregal Lodge in Dublin,” added the priest, “there is nothing so grand in all Ireland.”
“I must walk over there some day. Which way does it lie?”
“It’s between us and Westport, along the coast, almost out upon a rock.”
“What a strange idea to put such a lot of money into such a corner!”
“Is it not? It’s completely out of the world. The nearest railway station is fifty miles.”