persecutions to which it exposed her: the old woman, her sole guide and
companion, was dying: she was dejected and unhappy: she despaired of our
union: she expressed a desire for the refuge of the cloister. At last
came this letter, bidding me farewell for ever. Her relation was dead;
and, with the little money she had amassed, she had bought her entrance
into the convent of St. Mary of the White Sword. Imagine my despair! I
obtained leave of absence--I flew to Madrid. Beatriz is already immured
in that dreary asylum; she has entered on her novitiate."

"Is that the letter you refer to?" said Calderon, extending his hand.

Fonseca gave him the letter.

Hard and cold as Calderon's character had grown, there was something in
the tone of this letter--its pure and noble sentiments, its innocence,
its affection--that touched some mystic chord in his heart. He sighed as
he laid it down.

"You are, like all of us, Don Martin," said he, with a bitter smile, "the
dupe of a woman's faith. But you must purchase experience for yourself,
and if, indeed, you ask my services to procure you present bliss and
future disappointment, those services are yours. It will not, I think,
be difficult to interest the queen in your favour: leave me this letter,
it is one to touch the heart of a woman. If we succeed with the queen,
who is the patroness of the convent, we may be sure to obtain an order
from court for the liberation of the novice: the next step is one more
arduous. It is not enough to restore Beatriz to freedom--we must
reconcile your family to the marriage. This cannot be done while she is
not noble; but letters patent (here Calderon smiled) could ennoble a
mushroom itself--your humble servant is an example. Such letters may be