CHAPTER X.

WE REAP WHAT WE SOW.

With emotions of joy and triumph, such as had never yet agitated his
reckless and abandoned youth, the Infant of Spain bent his way towards
the lonely house on the road to Fuencarral. He descended from his
carriage when about a hundred yards from the abode, and proceeded on foot
to the appointed place.

The Jew opened the door to the prince with a hideous grin on his hollow
cheek; and Philip hastened up the stairs, and entering the chamber we
have before described, beheld, to his inconceivable consternation and
dismay, the form of Beatriz clasped in the arms of Calderon, her head
leaning on his bosom; while his voice half choked with passionate sobs
called upon her in the most endearing terms.

For a moment the prince stood, spell-bound and speechless, at the
threshold; then, striking the hilt of his sword fiercely, he exclaimed,
"Traitor! is it thus that thou hast kept thy promise? Dost thou not
tremble at my vengeance?"

"Peace! peace!" said Calderon, in an imperious, but sepulchral tone, and
waving one hand with a gesture of impatience and rebuke, while with the
other he removed the long clustering hair that fell over the pale face of
the still insensible novice. "Peace, prince of Spain; thy voice scares
back the struggling life--peace! Look up, image and relic of the
lost--the murdered--the martyr! Hush! do you hear her breathe, or is she
with her mother in that heaven which is closed on me? Live! live! my
daughter--my child--live! For thy life in the World Hereafter will _not_