‘You keepers can shoot. How many can we reckon on?’
Harry laughed.
‘When your lordship lifts up your little finger,’ he replied, ‘there’s not a keeper for miles and miles round that won’t run to join you, nor a stable-boy, nor a groom, nor a gardener. Ay! a hundred and fifty men, counting boys, will come in, once pass the word. A Chester has lived in these parts longer than men can remember.’
‘Do they remember, Harry, that a Chester once ruled this country?’
‘Ay ... so some say ... in the days when ... but there! it is an old story.’
‘But the girls, Harry, who have lost their lovers,—your own girl, what will she do?’
‘They whimper a bit; they have a row with the old woman; and then the Passon steps in and talks about religion, and they give in.’
‘What! If they saw a chance, if they thought they could get their sweethearts back again, would they not rejoice?’
Harry hesitated.
‘Some would, some wouldn’t. You see, my lord, it’s their religion stands in the way; and their religion means everything. What they say is, that if they married their sweethearts, these being young and proper men, and masterful, they would perhaps get put upon; whereas, they love to rule their husbands. But some would ... yes, some would.’