My mother's dying message was nothing to him.

And she, poor soul, lay in the cabin alone.
Knockowen was a poor shambling sort of house.

Strangers wondered why Maurice Gorman, who owned Kilgorman as well, chose to live in this place instead of the fine mansion near the lough mouth.

But to the country people this was no mystery.

Kilgorman had an evil name, and for twelve years, since its late master died, had stood desolate and empty-- tenanted only, so it was said, by a wandering ghost, and no place for decent Christian folk to dwell in.
As I lay curled up that stormy night in his honour's kitchen, I could not help thinking of the strange lights I had seen as I rowed in by the shore.