parentage. A letter, of which she now became the guardian and treasurer
--a letter, in her mother's hand-woke tears more deep and bitter than she
had ever shed for herself. In that letter she read the strength and the
fidelity, the sorrow and the gloom, of woman's love; and a dreary
foreboding told her that the shadow of the mother's fate was cast over
the child's. Such were the thoughts that made the cloister welcome, till
the desolation of the shelter was tried and known. But when, through the
agency of the porter, Fonseca's letter reached her, all other feelings
gave way to the burst of natural and passionate emotion. The absent had
returned, again wooed, was still faithful. The awful vow was not spoken
--she might yet be his. She answered; she chided; she spoke of doubt, of
peril, of fear for him, of maiden shame; but her affection coloured every
word, and the letter was full of hope. The correspondence continued; the
energetic remonstrances of Fonseca, the pure and fervent attachment of
the novice, led more and more rapidly and surely to the inevitable
result. Beatriz yielded to the prayer of her lover; she consented to the
scheme of escape and flight that he proposed.

Late at evening Fonseca sought Calderon. The marquis was in the gardens
of his splendid mansion.

The moonlight streamed over many a row of orange-trees and
pomegranates--many a white and richly sculptured vase, on its marble
pedestal--many a fountain, that scattered its low music round the
breathless air. Upon a terrace that commanded a stately view of the
spires and palaces of Madrid stood Calderon, alone; beside him, one
solitary and gigantic aloe cast its deep gloom of shade and his
motionless attitude, his folded arms, his face partially lifted to the
starlit heavens, bespoke the earnestness and concentration of his
thoughts.