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234 Till the panting wretch in his fierce unrest Would clutch the pouch as it lay on his breast, And waking cower, with sob and moan, Or shriek wild curses against the stone That was only a stone; for he could not sell, And he dare not break, and he feared to tell Of his wealth: so he bore it through hopes and fears— His God and his devil—for years and years.

And thus did he draw near the end of his race, With a form bent double and horror-lined face, And a piteous look, as if asking for grace Or for kindness from some one; but no kind word Was flung to his misery: shunned, abhorred, E'en by wretches themselves, till his life was a curse, And he thought that e'en death could bring nothing worse Than the phantoms that stirred at the diamond's weight,— His own life's ghost and the ghost of his mate.