and concentration of his
thoughts.

"Why does this shudder come over me?" said, he, half aloud. "It was thus
in that dismal hour which preceded the knowledge of my shame--the deed
of a dark revenge--the revolution of my eventful and wondrous life! Ah!
how happy was I once! a contented and tranquil student; a believer
in those eyes that were to me as the stars to the astrologer. But the
golden age passed into that of iron. And now," added Calderon, with a
self-mocking sneer, "comes the era which the poets have not chronicled;
for fraud, and hypocrisy, and vice, know no poets!"

The quick step of Fonseca interrupted the courtier's reverie. He turned,
knit his brow, and sighed heavily, as if nerving himself to some effort;
but his brow was smooth, and his aspect cheerful, ere Fonseca reached
his side.

"Give me joy--give me joy, dear Calderon! she has consented. Now, then,
your promised aid."

"You can depend upon the fidelity of your friendly porter?

"With my life."

"A master key to the back-door of the chapel has been made?"

"See, I have it."

"And Beatriz can contrive to secrete herself in the confessional at the
hour of the night prayers?"

"There is no doubt of her doing so with safety. The number of the
novices is so great, that one of them cannot well be missed."

"So much, then, for your part of the enterprise. Now for mine. You know
that solitary house in the suburbs, on the high road to Fuencarral,
which I pointed out to you yesterday? Well, the owner is a creature
of mine. There, horses shall be in waiting; there, disguises shall be
prepared. Beatriz must necessarily divest herself of the professional
dress; you had better choose meaner garments for yourself. Drop those
hidalgo titles of which your father is so proud, and pass off yourself
and the novice as a notary and his wife, about to visit France on a
lawsuit of inheritance. One of my secretaries shall provide you with a
pass. Meanwhile, to-morrow, I shall be the first officially to hear of
the flight of the novice, and I will set the pursuers on a wrong scent.
Have I not arranged all things properly, my Fonseca?"

"You are our guardian angel!" cried Don Martin, fervently. "The prayers
of Beatriz will be registered in your behalf above--prayers that will
reach the Great Throne as easily from the open valleys of France as in
the gloomy cloisters of Madrid. At midnight, to-morrow, then, we seek
the house you have described to us."

"Ay, at