There is here one exquisite touch of knowledge in feminine nature:—the grave yawns beneath her feet, opened by her lover's falsehood—her revenge has pointed the pathway to his scaffold—yet her heart turns to him with an inconsistent reliance—and menaces that dark conclave with fiery visitings if "Marmion's vengeance late should wake:" she has yet a lingering pride in the brave and powerful baron,
"First amid England's chivalry."
Scott deprecates censure on him, who
"died a gallant knight—
With sword in hand for England's right."
Still more might we deprecate it for her "who died in Holy Isle." The morality of pity is deeper and truer than that of censure. The sweetest and best qualities of our nature may be turned to evil, by the strong force of circumstance and of temptation. Constance is but the general history of those who escape from the convent-cell of restraint, and lose the softest feathers of the dove's wing in the effort; a few feverish years flit by—and then comes the end—despair and death!—For such a grave there is but one inscription—"Implora pace!"
