To think a man should have a lump like that
For his lieutenant! I must call him back,
Or else, as surely as St. George is dead,
He'll hang our friends the masons: here, John! John!
John Curzon.
At your good service, sir.
Sir Peter.
Come now, and talk
This weighty matter out; there, we've no stone
To mend our walls with, neither brick nor stone.
John Curzon.
There is a quarry, sir, some ten miles off.
Sir Peter.
We are not strong enough to send ten men
Ten miles to fetch us stone enough to build.
In three hours' time they would be taken or slain,
The cursed Frenchmen ride abroad so thick.
John Curzon.