'I asked to see Don Andres de Fonseca,' she said in a low quick voice.
'You are not he, senor.'
'Andres de Fonseca was buried to-day,' I answered. 'I was his assistant
in his business and am his heir. If I can serve you in any way I am at
your disposal.'
'You are young--very young,' she murmured confusedly, 'and the matter is
terrible and urgent. How can I trust you?'
'It is for you to judge, senora.'
She thought a while, then drew off her cloak, displaying the robes of a
nun.
'Listen,' she said. 'I must do many a penance for this night's work, and
very hardly have I won leave to come hither upon an errand of mercy. Now
I cannot go back empty-handed, so I must trust you. But first swear by
thine blessed Mother of God that you will not betray me.'
'I give you my word,' I answered; 'if that is not enough, let us end
this talk.'
'Do not be angry with me,' she pleaded; 'I have not left my convent
walls for many years and I am distraught with grief. I seek a poison of
the deadliest. I will pay well for it.'
'I am not the tool of murderers,' I answered. 'For what purpose do you
wish the poison?'
'Oh! I must tell you--yet how can I? In our convent there dies to-night
a woman young and fair, almost a girl indeed, who has broken the vows
she took. She dies to-night with her babe--thus, oh God, thus! by being
built alive into the foundations of the house she has disgraced.
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