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 and the exile faces a foreign shore in utter hopelessness that he shall ever look on the face he loves again, the pity for himself that cannot but chill his sorrowing heart merges in anxiety and tenderness for Maud. Even now—perhaps now more than ever—in grief, danger, and privation, his first thought flies to the idol for whom he has built his life into a throne, that she may reign there unrivalled and supreme. May his be the shame, the sorrow, and the suffering!—such is his wild, pathetic prayer—and let the treasure of his heart go free. If there be danger, let it lower round his unprotected head. If there be punishment, let him bear it for both! Ay, though she may never reward him for it, never even know it; for in this world these two are surely parted not to meet again. What of that? She is still his queen—his goddess—his love—the aim of his existence, the darling of his care.