He stood at gaze, bewitched by the play of light and shadow among the slopes; and when he turned towards the lake again, he was surprised to see a yacht by Castle Island.  A random breeze just sprung up had borne her so far, and now she lay becalmed, carrying, without doubt, a pleasure-party, inspired by some vague interest in ruins, and a very real interest in lunch; or the yacht’s destination might be Kilronan Abbey, and the priest wondered if there were water enough in the strait to let her through in this season of the year.  The sails flapped in the puffing breeze, and he began to calculate her tonnage, certain that if he had such a boat he would not be sailing her on a lake, but on the bright sea, out of sight of land, in the middle of a great circle of water.  As if stung by a sudden sense of the sea, of its perfume and its freedom, he imagined the filling of the sails and the rattle of the ropes, and how a fair wind would carry him as far as the cove of Cork before morning.  The run from Cork to Liverpool would be slower, but the wind might veer a little, and in four-and-twenty hours the Welsh mountains would begin to show above the horizon.  But he would not land anywhere on the Welsh coast.  There was nothing to see in Wales but castles, and he was weary of castles, and longed to see the cathedrals of York and Salisbury; for he had often seen them in pictures, and had more than once thought of a walking tour through England.  Better still if the yacht were to land him somewhere on the French coast.  England was, after all, only an island like Ireland—–­ a little larger, but still an island—­and he thought he would like a continent to roam in.  The French cathedrals were more beautiful than the English, and it would be pleasant to wander in the French country in happy-go-lucky fashion, resting when he was tired, walking when it pleased him, taking an interest in whatever might strike his fancy.

It seemed to him that his desire was to be freed for a while from everything he had ever seen, and from everything he had ever heard.  He merely wanted to wander, admiring everything there was to admire as he went.  He didn’t want to learn anything, only to admire.  He was weary of argument, religious and political.  It wasn’t that he was indifferent to his country’s welfare, but every mind requires rest, and he wished himself away in a foreign country, distracted every moment by new things, learning the language out of a volume of songs, and hearing music, any music, French or German—­any music but Irish music.  He sighed, and wondered why he sighed.  Was it because he feared that if he once went away he might never come back?