Flannery: It might be the harp of Angus.
Rock: I see no trace of it.
Conan: There is something hard! It should
likely be a silver trumpet or a hunting-horn of gold!
Rock: Give me a hold of it.
Conan: Leave go! (Lifts out bellows.)
Rock: Ha! Ha! Ha! after all your chat, nothing
but a little old bellows!...
Conan: There is seven rings on it.... They
should signify the seven blasts....
Rock: If there was seventy times seven what
use would it be but to redden the coals?
Conan: Every one of these blasts has power to
make some change.
Rock: Make one so, and I'll plough the world
for you.