"My lover! my betrothed!" exclaimed the voice of the novice: "thou are
come to save us--to save thy Beatriz!"

"Yes; and to chastise the betrayer!" exclaimed Fonseca, in a voice of
thunder. "Leave thy victim, villain! Defend thyself!"

He made a desperate lunge at Calderon while he spoke. The marquis feebly
parried the stroke.

"Hold!" he cried. "Not on me!"

"No--no!" exclaimed Beatriz, throwing herself on her father's breast.
The words came too late. Blinded and deafened with rage, Fonseca had
again, with more sure and deadly aim, directed his weapon against his
supposed foe. The blade struck home, but not to the heart of Calderon.
It was Beatriz, bathed in her blood, who fell at the feet of her frenzied
lover.

"Daughter and mother both!" muttered Calderon; and he fell as if the
steel had pierced his own heart, beside his child. "Wretch! what hast
thou done?" muttered a voice strange to the ear of Fonseca; a voice half
stifled with Horror and, perhaps, remorse. The Prince of Spain stood on
the spot, and his feet were dabbled in the blood of the virgin martyr.
The moonlight alone lighted that spectacle of crime and death; and the
faces of all seemed ghastly beneath its beams. Beatriz turned her eyes
upon her lover, with an expression of celestial compassion and divine
forgiveness; then sinking upon Calderon's breast, she muttered, "Pardon
him! pardon him, father! I shall tell my mother that thou hast blessed
me!"