omy thought. At last he strode slowly away,
as if to quit the chamber, when his foot struck against the case of the
picture, and his eye rested upon a paper which lay therein, folded and
embedded. He took it up, and, lifting aside the hangings, hurried into a
small cabinet lighted by a single lamp. Here, alone and unseen, Calderon
read the following letter:

"TO RODERIGO NUNEZ.

"Will this letter ever meet thine eyes? I know not; but it is comfort to
write to thee on the bed of death; and were it not for that horrible and
haunting thought that thou believest me--me whose very life was in thy
love--faithless and dishonoured, even death itself would be the sweeter
because it comes from the loss of thee. Yes, something tells me that
these lines will not be written in vain; that thou wilt read them yet,
when this hand is still and this brain at rest, and that then thou
wilt feel that I could not have dared to write to thee if I were not
innocent; that in every word thou wilt recognise the evidence that is
strong as the voice of thousands,--the simple but solemn evidence
of faith and truth. What! when for thee I deserted all--home, and a
father's love, wealth, and the name I had inherited from Moors who had
been monarchs in their day--couldst thou think that I had not made the
love of thee the core, and life, and principle of my very being! And one
short year, could that suffice to shake my faith?--one year of marriage,
but two months of absence? You left me, left that dear home, by the
silver Xenil. For love did not suffice to you; ambition began to stir
within you, and you called it 'love.' You said, 'It grieved you that I
was poor; that you could not restore to me the luxury and wealth I had
lost.' (Alas! why did you turn so incredulously from my assurance, that
in you, and you alone, were centred my ambition and pride?) You declared
that the vain readers of the stars had foretold at your cradle that
you were predestined to lofty honours and dazzling power, and that
the prophecy would work out its own fulfilment. You left me to seek in
Madrid your relation who had risen into the favour of a minister, and
from whose love you expected to gain an opening to your career. Do
you remember how we parted? how you kissed away my tears, and how they
gushed forth again? how again and again you said, 'Farewell!' and again
and again returned as if we could never part? And I took my babe, but
a few weeks born, from her cradle, and p