Which hath no chamber for them save beneath
Her surface.

_Wer._ And that's not the worst: who cares
For chambers? rest is all. The wretches whom 30
Thou namest--aye, the wind howls round them, and
The dull and dropping rain saps in their bones
The creeping marrow. I have been a soldier,
A hunter, and a traveller, and am
A beggar, and should know the thing thou talk'st of.

_Jos._ And art thou not now sheltered from them all?
_Wer._ Yes. And from these alone.

_Jos._ And that is something.

_Wer._ True--to a peasant.[cn]

_Jos._ Should the nobly born
Be thankless for that refuge which their habits
Of early delicacy render more 40
Needful than to the peasant, when the ebb
Of fortune leaves them on the shoals of life?

_Wer._ It is not that, thou know'st it is not: we
Have borne all this, I'll not say patiently,
Except in thee--but we have borne it.

_Jos._ Well?

_Wer._ Something beyond our outward sufferings (though
These were enough to gnaw into our souls)
Hath stung me oft, and, more than ever, _now_.
When, but for this untoward sickness, which
Seized me upon this desolate frontier, and 50
Hath wasted, not alone my strength, but means,
And leaves us--no! this is beyond me!--but
For this I had been happy--_thou_ been happy--
The splendour of my rank sustained--my name--
My father's name--been still upheld; and, more
Than those----

_Jos._ (_abruptly_). My son--our son--our Ulric,
Been clasped again in these long-empty arms,
And all a mother's hunger satisfied.
Twelve years! he was but eight then:--beautiful
He was, and beautiful he must be now, 60
My Ulric! my adored!

_Wer._ I have been full oft
The chase of Fortune; now she hath o'ertaken
My spirit where it cannot turn at bay,--
Sick, poor, and lonely.

_Jos._ Lonely! my dear husband?

_Wer._ Or worse--involving all I love, in this
Far worse than solitude. _Alone_, I had died,
And all been over in a nameless grave.

_Jos._ And I had not outlived thee; but pray take
Comfort! We have struggled long; and they who strive