m into his nostrils, holding the box
open under his nose the while, to prevent the possibility of wasting
even one grain, sniffed once or twice luxuriously--closed the
box--then looked at me again with his eyes watering and twinkling more
suspiciously than before.

"Yes," said the monk, "that's an ugly sight in our outhouse--a very ugly
sight, certainly!"

I never had more difficulty in keeping my temper in my life than at
that moment. I succeeded, however, in repressing a very disrespectful
expression on the subject of monks in general, which was on the tip
of my tongue, and made another attempt to conquer the old man's
exasperating reserve. Fortunately for my chances of succeeding with him,
I was a snuff-taker myself, and I had a box full of excellent English
snuff in my pocket, which I now produced as a bribe. It was my last
resource.

"I thought your box seemed empty just now," said I; "will you try a
pinch out of mine?"

The offer was accepted with an almost youthful alacrity of gesture. The
Capuchin took the largest pinch I ever saw held between any man's finger
and thumb--inhaled it slowly without spilling a single grain--half
closed his eyes--and, wagging his head gently, patted me paternally on
the back.

"Oh, my son," said the monk, "what delectable snuff! Oh, my son and
amiable traveler, give the spiritual father who loves you yet another
tiny, tiny pinch!"

"Let me fill your box for you. I shall have plenty left for myself."

The battered tin snuff-box was given to me before I had done speaking;
the paternal hand patted my back more approvingly than ever; the feeble,
husky voice grew glib and eloquent in my praise. I had evidently found
out the weak side of the old Capuchin, and, on returning him his box, I
took instant advantage of the discovery.

"Excuse my troubling you on the subject again," I said, "but I have
particular reasons for wanting to hear all that you can tell me in
explanation of that horrible sight in the outhouse."

"Come in," answered the monk.

He drew me inside the gate, closed it, and then leading the way across a
grass-grown courtyard, looking out on a weedy kitchen-garden, showed
me into a long room with a low ceiling, a dirty dresser, a few
rudely-carved stall seats, and one or two grim, mildewed pictures for
ornaments. This was the sacristy.

"There's nobody here, and it's nice and cool," said the old Capuchin.
It was so damp that I actually shivered. "Would you like