As he spoke, Don Martin turned to the table, and wrote a hasty and impassioned note, in which he implored the novice to trust herself to the directions of Don Roderigo Calderon, his best, his only friend; and, as he placed this letter in the hands of the courtier he turned aside to conceal his emotions. Calderon himself was deeply moved: his cheek was flushed, and his hand seemed tremulous as it took the letter.
“Remember,” said Fonseca, “that I trust to you my life of life. As you are true to me, may Heaven be merciful to you!”
Calderon made no answer, but turned to the door. “Stay,” said Fonseca; “I had forgot this—here is the master key.”
“True; how dull I was! And the porter—will he attend to thy proxy?”
“Doubt it not. Accost him with the word, ‘Grenada.’ But he expects to share the flight.”
“That can be arranged. To-morrow you will hear of my success. Farewell!”
CHAPTER VIII. THE ESCAPE
It was midnight in the chapel of the convent.
The moonlight shone with exceeding lustre through the tall casements, and lit into a ghastly semblance of life the marble images of saint and martyr, that threw their long shadows over the consecrated floor. Nothing could well be conceived more dreary, solemn, and sepulchral than that holy place: its distained and time-hallowed walls; the impenetrable mass of darkness that gathered into those recesses which the moonlight failed to reach; its antique and massive tombs, above which reclined the sculptured effigies of some departed patroness or abbess, who had exchanged a living grave for the Mansions of the Blest. But there—oh, wonderful human heart!—even there, in that spot, the very homily and warning against earthly affections and mortal hopes—even there, couldst thou beat with as wild, as bright, and as pure a passion as ever heaved the breast and shone in the eyes of Beauty, in the free air that ripples the Guadiana, or amidst the twilight dance of Castilian maids.