landing a case of conscience with his class like a giraffe cropping high leafage among a herd of antelopes, the grave troubled prefect of the sodality, the plump round-headed professor of Italian with his rogue’s eyes.  They came ambling and stumbling, tumbling and capering, kilting their gowns for leap frog, holding one another back, shaken with deep false laughter, smacking one another behind and laughing at their rude malice, calling to one another by familiar nicknames, protesting with sudden dignity at some rough usage, whispering two and two behind their hands.

The professor had gone to the glass cases on the side wall, from a shelf of which he took down a set of coils, blew away the dust from many points and, bearing it carefully to the table, held a finger on it while he proceeded with his lecture.  He explained that the wires in modern coils were of a compound called platinoid lately discovered by F. W. Martino.

He spoke clearly the initials and surname of the discoverer.  Moynihan whispered from behind: 

—­Good old Fresh Water Martin!

—­Ask him, Stephen whispered back with weary humour, if he wants a subject for electrocution.  He can have me.

Moynihan, seeing the professor bend over the coils, rose in his bench and, clacking noiselessly the fingers of his right hand, began to call with the voice of a slobbering urchin.

—­Please teacher!  This boy is after saying a bad word, teacher.

—­Platinoid, the professor said solemnly, is preferred to German silver because it has a lower coefficient of resistance by changes of temperature.  The platinoid wire is insulated and the covering of silk that insulates it is wound on the ebonite bobbins just where my finger is.  If it were wound single an extra current would be induced in the coils.  The bobbins are saturated in hot paraffin wax...

A sharp Ulster voice said from the bench below Stephen: 

—­Are we likely to be asked questions on applied science?

The professor began to juggle gravely with the terms pure science and applied science.  A heavy-built student, wearing gold spectacles, stared with some wonder at the questioner.  Moynihan murmured from behind in his natural voice: 

—­Isn’t MacAlister a devil for his pound of flesh?

Stephen looked coldly on the oblong skull beneath him overgrown with tangled twine-coloured hair.  The voice, the accent, the mind of the questioner offended him and he allowed the offence to carry him towards wilful unkindness, bidding his mind think that the student’s father would have done better had he sent his son to Belfast to study and have saved something on the train fare by so doing.

The oblong skull beneath did not turn to meet this shaft of thought and yet the shaft came back to its bowstring; for he saw in a moment the student’s whey-pale face.

—­That thought is not mine, he said to himself quickly.  It came from the comic Irishman in the bench behind.  Patience.  Can you say with certitude by whom the soul of your race was bartered and its elect betrayed—­by the questioner or by the mocker?  Patience.  Remember Epictetus.  It is probably in his character to ask such a question at such a moment in such a tone and to pronounce the word science as a monosyllable.