of the courtier he turned aside to
conceal his emotions. Calderon himself was deeply moved: his cheek was
flushed, and his hand seemed tremulous as it took the letter.

"Remember," said Fonseca, "that I trust to you my life of life. As you
are true to me, may Heaven be merciful to you!"

Calderon made no answer, but turned to the door. "Stay," said Fonseca;
"I had forgot this--here is the master key."

"True; how dull I was! And the porter--will he attend to thy proxy?"

"Doubt it not. Accost him with the word, 'Grenada.' But he expects to
share the flight."

"That can be arranged. To-morrow you will hear of my success. Farewell!"

CHAPTER VIII. THE ESCAPE

It was midnight in the chapel of the convent.

The moonlight shone with exceeding lustre through the tall casements,
and lit into a ghastly semblance of life the marble images of saint
and martyr, that threw their long shadows over the consecrated floor.
Nothing could well be conceived more dreary, solemn, and sepulchral than
that holy place: its distained and time-hallowed walls; the impenetrable
mass of darkness that gathered into those recesses which the moonlight
failed to reach; its antique and massive tombs, above which reclined
the sculptured effigies of some departed patroness or abbess, who had
exchanged a living grave for the Mansions of the Blest. But there--oh,
wonderful human heart!--even there, in that spot, the very homily and
warning against earthly affections and mortal hopes--even there, couldst
thou beat with as wild, as bright, and as pure a passion as ever heaved
the breast and shone in the eyes of Beauty, in the free air that ripples
the Guadiana, or amidst the twilight dance of Castilian maids.

A tall figure, wrapped from head to foot in a cloak, passed slowly up
the aisle. But light and cautious though the footstep, it woke a low,
hollow, ominous echo, that seemed more than the step itself to disturb
the sanctity of the place. It paused opposite to a confessional, which
was but dimly visible through the shadows around it. And then there
emerged timidly a female form; and a soft voice whispered "It is thou,
Fonseca!"

"Hist!" was the answer; "he waits without. Be quick; speak not--come."

Beatriz recoiled in surprise and alarm at the voice of a stranger; but
the man, seizing her by the hand, drew her hastily from the chapel, and
hurried her across the garden, through a small postern door, which stood
ajar, into an obscure st