"Do I intrude, my son?" said the churchman.

"No, father, no; I never more desired your presence--your counsel. It is
not often that I stand halting and irresolute between the two magnets of
interest and conscience: this is one of those rare dilemmas."

Here Calderon rapidly narrated the substance of his conversation with
Fonseca, and of the subsequent communication with the prince.

"You see," he said, in conclusion, "how critical is my position. On one
side, my obligations to Fonseca, my promise to a benefactor, a friend to
the boy I assisted to rear. Nor is that all: the prince asks me to
connive at the abstraction of a novice from a consecrated house. What
peril--what hazard! On the other side, if I refuse, the displeasure, the
vengeance of the prince, for whose favour I have already half forfeited
that of the king; and who, were he once to frown upon me, would encourage
all my enemies--in other phrase, the whole court--in one united attempt
at my ruin."

"It is a stern trial," said the monk, gravely; "and one that may well
excite your fear."

"Fear, Aliaga!--ha! ha!--fear!" said Calderon, laughing scornfully. "Did
true ambition ever know fear? Have we not the old Castilian proverb,
that tells us 'He who has climbed the first step to power has left terror
a thousand leagues behind'? No, it is not fear that renders me
irresolute; it is wisdom, and some touch, some remnant of human nature
--philosophers would call it virtue; you priests, religion."