“Bring in Angus,” laughed the Earl, “he’ll pull either the helmet or the head off you.”
The huge Angus came lumbering in after the warder, who went in search of him.
“Have you had your supper, Angus?” asked the Earl.
“Yes, ma lord.”
“Then let us see what strength it’s given you. Tug this iron pot from Armstrong’s head.”
Angus, bracing himself as the warder had done, jerked ineffectually several times.
“Pull, ye deevil,” cried Armstrong. “Ye’ve no more strength than a three-year-old wean.”
“Ah’m feart to thraw yer neck,” protested Angus.
“Never mind the neck. Being hanged by Cromwell is as nothing to this. Pull, ye gomeral! Am I to go about with my head in a metal bucket all my life? Pull!”
Angus put forth his strength, and the helmet gave way with unexpected suddenness, whereupon Angus sat down on the floor with a thud like an earthquake, the steel cap in his lap. Traquair slapped his thigh and roared till the rafters rang.