the rigid ceremonials of
that life, which is but the mimicry of death, appalled and shocked
her. That she had preserved against a royal and most perilous, because
unscrupulous suitor, her fidelity to the absent Fonseca, was her sole
consolation.

Another circumstance had combined with the loss of her protectress and
the absence of Don Martin to sadden her heart and dispose her to the
cloister. On the deathbed of the old woman, who had been to her as a
mother, she had learned a secret hitherto concealed from her tender
youth. Dark and tragic were the influences of the star which had shone
upon her birth, gloomy the heritage of memories associated with
her 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