emand on your
invention, your courage, your skill. Know, Calderon, I love!"

"My prince," said the marquis, smiling, "it is certainly not first love.
How often has your highness--"

"No," interrupted the prince, hastily,--"no, I never loved till now. We
never can love what we can easily win; but this, Calderon, this heart
would be a conquest. Listen. I was at the convent chapel of St. Mary of
the White Sword yesterday with the queen. Thou knowest that the abbess
once was a lady of the chamber, and the queen loves her."

"Both of us were moved and astonished by the voice of one of the
choir--it was that of a novice. After the ceremony the queen made
inquiries touching this new Santa Cecilia; and who dost thou think
she is? No; thou wilt never guess!--the once celebrated singer--the
beautiful, the inimitable Beatriz Coello! Ah! you may well look
surprised; when actresses turn nuns, it is well-nigh time for Calderon
and Philip to turn monks. Now, you must know, Roderigo, that I, unworthy
though I be, am the cause of this conversion. There is a certain Martin
Fonseca, a kinsman of Lerma's--thou knowest him well. I learned, some
time since, from the duke, that this young Orlando was most madly
enamoured of a low-born girl--nay, desired to wed her. The duke's story
moved my curiosity. I found that it was the young Beatriz Coello, whom
I had already admired on the stage. Ah, Calderon, she blazed and set
during thy dull mission to Lisbon! I sought an opportunity to visit her.
I was astonished at her beauty, that seemed more dazzling in the
chamber than on the stage. I pressed my suit-in vain. Calderon, hear you
that?--in vain! Why wert thou not by? Thy arts never fail, my friend!
She was living with an old relation, or governante. The old relation
died suddenly--I took advantage of her loneliness--I entered her house
at night. By St. Jago, her virtue baffled and defeated me. The next
morning she was gone; nor could my researches discover her, until, at
the convent of St. Mary, I recognised the lost actress in the young
novice. She has fled to the convent to be true to Fonseca; she must fly
from the convent to bless the prince. This is my tale: I want thy aid."

"Prince," said Calderon, gravely, "thou knowest the laws of Spain; the
rigour of the Church. I dare not--"

"Pshaw. No scruples--my rank will bear thee harmless. Nay, look not so
demure; why, even thou, see, hast thy Armida. This billet in a female
hand--Heaven and