“Give me joy—give me joy, dear Calderon! she has consented. Now, then, your promised aid.”
“You can depend upon the fidelity of your friendly porter?
“With my life.”
“A master key to the back-door of the chapel has been made?”
“See, I have it.”
“And Beatriz can contrive to secrete herself in the confessional at the hour of the night prayers?”
“There is no doubt of her doing so with safety. The number of the novices is so great, that one of them cannot well be missed.”
“So much, then, for your part of the enterprise. Now for mine. You know that solitary house in the suburbs, on the high road to Fuencarral, which I pointed out to you yesterday? Well, the owner is a creature of mine. There, horses shall be in waiting; there, disguises shall be prepared. Beatriz must necessarily divest herself of the professional dress; you had better choose meaner garments for yourself. Drop those hidalgo titles of which your father is so proud, and pass off yourself and the novice as a notary and his wife, about to visit France on a lawsuit of inheritance. One of my secretaries shall provide you with a pass. Meanwhile, to-morrow, I shall be the first officially to hear of the flight of the novice, and I will set the pursuers on a wrong scent. Have I not arranged all things properly, my Fonseca?”
“You are our guardian angel!” cried Don Martin, fervently. “The prayers of Beatriz will be registered in your behalf above—prayers that will reach the Great Throne as easily from the open valleys of France as in the gloomy cloisters of Madrid. At midnight, to-morrow, then, we seek the house you have described to us.”
“Ay, at midnight, all shall be prepared.”