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 to see the church ?" said the monk; "a jewel of a church, if we could keep it in repair; but we can't.