Here were the rotten beam, the sinking arch, the sapped and mouldering wall, the lowly trench of earth, the stately tomb on which no epitaph remained--all--marble, stone, iron, wood, and dust--one common monument of ruin.

The best work and the worst, the plainest and the richest, the stateliest and the least imposing--both of Heaven's work and Man's--all found one common level here, and told one common tale.
Some part of the edifice had been a baronial chapel, and here were effigies of warriors stretched upon their beds of stone with folded hands--cross-legged, those who had fought in the Holy Wars--girded with their swords, and cased in armour as they had lived.

Some of these knights had their own weapons, helmets, coats of mail, hanging upon the walls hard by, and dangling from rusty hooks.

Broken and dilapidated as they were, they yet retained their ancient form, and something of their ancient aspect.

Thus violent deeds live after men upon the earth, and traces of war and bloodshed will survive in mournful shapes long after those who worked the desolation are but atoms of earth themselves.
The child sat down, in this old, silent place, among the stark figures on the tombs--they made it more quiet there, than elsewhere, to her fancy--and gazing round with a feeling of awe, tempered with a calm delight, felt that now she was happy, and at rest.