Constance, how much the soul is "subdued by pity!"—how is the horror relieved by beauty! I know no description conveying such an idea of exquisite loveliness, as that of Constance before her judges:—
"Her sex a page's dress belied,
Obscured her charms, but could not hide.
A monk undid the silken band,
That tied her tresses fair;
And down her slender form they spread,
In ringlets rich and rare.
When thus her face was given to view,
Although so pallid was her hue,
It did a ghastly contrast bear
To those bright ringlets glistering fair:
Her look composed, and steady eye,
Bespoke a matchless constancy;
And there she stood, so calm and pale,
That, but her breathing did not fail,
And motion slight of eye and head,
And of her bosom, warranted
That neither sense nor pulse she lacks,
You might have thought a form of wax,
Wrought to the very life, was there,
So still she was, so pale, so fair."
It is wonderful how much Scott contrives to suggest to the imagination. The above picture brings Constance's previous existence so vividly to mind! The fugitive nun is again beneath the sway from whence she once fled:—she fled, timid, trusting, and hopeful; the beating heart, impatient of restraint, and confident of happiness—the lurking daring shown in the very escape; and the native courage in the resolve that could brave all the terrors of superstition; time passes on—
"For three long years I bow'd my pride,
A horse-boy in his train to ride."
Here again the spirit of determination is shown; Constance will not dwell alone, apart—
"Within some lonely bower."
No; she will keep at her lover's side—in the wide and weary world she has nothing to do but to wait upon Marmion's steps. But even that haughty spirit has its sad weak moments: Sir Hugh has
"Often mark'd his cheeks were wet
With tears he fain would hide."
It is a cruel proof of the want of generosity in human nature, that an affection too utterly self-sacrificing always meets with an evil return. The obligation for which we know there is no requital becomes a burden hard to be borne; we take refuge in ingratitude. Secondly, the conscience is never quite without
"That shuddering chill
Which follows fast on deed of ill."
