But Owen Davies was not in the least mad, at any rate not then; he was only a creature of habit.  In due course, his agreement fulfilled, he sailed his brig home from the West Indies (for the captain was drowned in a gale).  Then he took a second-class ticket to Bryngelly, where he had never been in his life before, and asked his way to the Castle.  He was told to go to the beach, and he would see it.  He did so, leaving his sea-chest behind him, and there, about two hundred paces from the land, and built upon a solitary mountain of rock, measuring half a mile or so round the base, he perceived a vast mediaeval pile of fortified buildings, with turrets towering three hundred feet into the air, and edged with fire by the setting sun.  He gazed on it with perplexity.  Could it be that this enormous island fortress belonged to him, and, if so, how on earth did one get to it?  For some little time he walked up and down, wondering, too shy to go to the village for information.  Meanwhile, though he did not notice her, a well-grown girl of about fifteen, remarkable for her great grey eyes and the promise of her beauty, was watching his evident perplexity from a seat beneath a rock, not without amusement.  At last she rose, and, with the confidence of bold fifteen, walked straight up to him.

“Do you want to get the Castle, sir?” she asked in a low sweet voice, the echoes of which Owen Davies never forgot.

“Yes—­oh, I beg your pardon,” for now for the first time he saw that he was talking to a young lady.

“Then I am afraid that you are too late—­Mrs. Thomas will not show people over after four o’clock.  She is the housekeeper, you know.”

“Ah, well, the fact is I did not come to see over the place.  I came to live there.  I am Owen Davies, and the place was left to me.”

Beatrice, for of course it was she, stared at him in amazement.  So this was the mysterious sailor about whom there had been so much talk in Bryngelly.

“Oh!” she said, with embarrassing frankness.  “What an odd way to come home.  Well, it is high tide, and you will have to take a boat.  I will show you where you can get one.  Old Edward will row you across for sixpence,” and she led the way round a corner of the beach to where old Edward sat, from early morn to dewy eve, upon the thwarts of his biggest boat, seeking those whom he might row.

“Edward,” said the young lady, “here is the new squire, Mr. Owen Davies, who wants to be rowed across to the Castle.”  Edward, a gnarled and twisted specimen of the sailor tribe, with small eyes and a face that reminded the observer of one of those quaint countenances on the handle of a walking stick, stared at her in astonishment, and then cast a look of suspicion on the visitor.

“Have he got papers of identification about him, miss?” he asked in a stage whisper.

“I don’t know,” she answered laughing.  “He says that he is Mr. Owen Davies.”