he had told Odo, a pronounced taste for antiquarian research.  In addition to this, he performed agreeably on the violin, and was well-acquainted with the history of music.  His chief distinction, however, lay in the ease with which he wore his accomplishments, and in a breadth of view that made it possible to discuss with him many subjects distasteful to most men of his cloth.  The sceptical or licentious ecclesiastic was common enough; but Odo had never before met a priest who united serious piety with this indulgent temper, or who had learning enough to do justice to the arguments of his opponents.

On his venturing one evening to compliment de Crucis on these qualities, the latter replied with a smile:  “Whatever has been lately advanced against the Jesuits, it can hardly be denied that they were good school-masters; and it is to them I owe the talents you have been pleased to admire.  Indeed,” he continued, quietly fingering his violin, “I was myself bred in the order:  a fact I do not often make known in the present heated state of public opinion, but which I never conceal when commended for any quality that I owe to the Society rather than to my own merit.”

Surprise for the moment silenced Odo; for though it was known that Italy was full of former Jesuits who had been permitted to remain in the country as secular priests, and even to act as tutors or professors in private families, he had never thought of de Crucis in this connection.  The latter, seeing his surprise, went on:  “Once a Jesuit, always a Jesuit, I suppose.  I at least owe the Society too much not to own my debt when the occasion offers.  Nor could I ever see the force of the charge so often brought against us:  that we sacrifice everything to the glory of the order.  For what is the glory of the order?  Our own motto has declared it:  Ad majorem Dei gloriam—­who works for the Society works for its Master.  If our zeal has been sometimes misdirected, our blood has a thousand times witnessed to its sincerity.  In the Indies, in America, in England during the great persecution, and lately on our own unnatural coasts, the Jesuits have died for Christ as joyfully as His first disciples died for Him.  Yet these are but a small number in comparison with the countless servants of the order who, labouring in far countries among savage peoples, or surrounded by the heretical enemies of our faith, have died the far bitterer death of moral isolation:  setting themselves to their task with the knowledge that their lives were but so much indistinguishable dust to be added to the sum of human effort.  What association founded on human interests has ever commanded such devotion?  And what merely human authority could count on such unquestioning obedience, not in a mob of poor illiterate monks, but in men chosen for their capacity and trained to the exercise of their highest faculties?  Yet there have never lacked such men to serve the Order; and as one of our enemies has said—­our noblest enemy, the great Pascal—­’je crois volontiers aux histoires dont les temoins se font egorger.’”