ith the political career he has already
entered upon; and though she sees that every vision of this future
begins and ends in her, she sees, as justly, that its making or marring
is in the Queen's hands. Here is a second motive for self-sacrifice.
Norbert has no suspicion of what he has done. The Queen appears before
Constance has had time to inform him of it; and the latter has now no
choice but to let him learn it from the Queen's own lips. She draws her
on, accordingly, under plea of Norbert's diffidence, to speak of what
she believes him to have asked of her, and what she knows to be already
granted. She tries to prompt his reply.

But Norbert will not be prompted. He is slow to understand what is
expected of him, very indignant when he does so; and in terror lest he
should still be misunderstood--in unconsciousness of the torture he is
inflicting--he asserts and re-asserts his respect for the one woman, his
absorbing passion for the other. The Queen goes out. Her looks and
silence have been ominous. The shadow of a great dread falls upon the
scene. The dance-music stops. Heavy footsteps are heard approaching.
Norbert and Constance stand awaiting their doom. But they are united as
they have never yet been, and they can defy it; for her love has shown
itself as capable of all sacrifice--his as above temptation.

Various theories have been formed as to the kind of woman Mr. Browning
meant Constance to be; but a careful and unbiassed reading of the poem
can leave no doubt on the subject. He has given her, not the courage of
an exclusively moral nature, but all the self-denial of a devoted one,
growing with the demands which are made upon it. How single-hearted is
her attempt to sacrifice Norbert's love, is sufficiently shown by one
sentence, addressed to him after his interview with the Queen:

"You were mine. Now I give myself to you." (vol. vii. p. 28.)

"THE RING AND THE BOOK." 1868-69.

From the dramas, we pass naturally to the dramatic monologues; poems
embodying a lengthened argument or soliloquy, and to which there is
already an approach in the tragedies themselves. The dramatic monologue
repeats itself in the finest poems of the "Men and Women," and "Dramatis
Personae;" and Mr. Browning's constructive power thus remains, as it
were, diffused, till it culminates again in "The Ring and the Book:" at
once his greatest constructive achievement, and the triumph of the
monologue form. From this time onwa