Father Moran began to catechize Hyacinth before the train started, and drew from him, as they went westwards, the story of his disappointments, doubts, hopes, veerings, and final despair. Hyacinth spoke unwillingly at first, giving no more than necessary answers to the questions. Then, because he found that reticence called down on him fresh and more detailed inquiries, and also because the priest’s evident and sympathetic interest redeemed a prying curiosity from offensiveness, he told his tale more freely. Very soon there was no more need of questioning, and Father Moran’s share in the talk took the form of comments interrupting a narrative. Of Captain Albert Quinn he said: ‘I’ve heard of him, and a nice kind of a boy he seems to have been. I suppose he fought when he got there. He’s just the sort that would be splendid at the fighting. Well, God is good, and I suppose it’s to do the fighting for the rest of us that He makes the likes of Captain Quinn. Did you hear that they wanted to make him a member of Parliament? Well, they did. Nothing less would please them. But what good would that be, when he couldn’t set foot in the country for fear of being arrested?’ Later on he was moved to laughter. ‘To think of your going on the road with a bag full of blankets and shawls! I never heard of such a thing, and all the grand notions your head was full of! Why didn’t you come my way? I’d have made Rafferty give you an order. I’d have bought the makings of a frieze coat from you myself--I would, indeed.’ Afterwards he became grave again. ‘I won’t let you say the hard word about the nuns, Mr. Conneally. Don’t do it, now. There’s plenty of good convents up and down through the country--more than ever you’ll know of, being the black Protestant you are. And the ones that ruined your business--supposing they did ruin it, and I’ve only your word for that--what right have you to be blaming them? They were trying to turn an honest penny by an honest trade, and that’s just what you and your friend Mr. Quinn were doing yourselves.’ Hyacinth, conscious of a failure in good taste, shifted his ground, only to be interrupted again.