“Very well. Let me tell you, you’ll find that same Oxford a very hard nut to crack if you attempt to take it by assault. I went carefully around the fortifications, and would seek no better job than to hold it against you and your whole army. There would be many a cropped head low before you got mine in your clutches,” and William passed his hand sympathetically over his denuded crown, as had become a custom with him. His questioner bent forward with more of eagerness than he had hitherto shown, all thought of the indictment he was heaping up seeming to pass from his mind. “Where is its weakest spot?” he said, as one expert might seek counsel from another who had personal experience of the subject. “That is the beauty of it. There is no weakest spot.” “Is there not? We shall never need to take it by assault, but if that were thought best, it might be attacked from the south.” Armstrong raised his eyes to the ceiling and meditated for a moment. “I think you’re right,” he said, “but it would cost a’wheen o’ men.” “Yes; better men than are within its walls, and they shall not be sacrificed. I can wait, and the King cannot. You delivered the King’s message to Traquair?” “Yes. That’s what I went for.” “And you have the impudence to come to me, thinking I will allow you to return?” “Say confidence, rather. I am very sure you will allow me to return.” “Yes, confidence is the word, but with a mixture of impudence as well; the malt and the hops. It never crossed your mind that it was a dungeon you were approaching?” “I thought if you did anything, it would be hanging.” “And why not?” “Because my death by rope would be just the little fillip that Scotland needs at the present moment. You thraw my neck, and the Scots are at yours before I am fairly happit in the ground.” “You look upon yourself as important to your countrymen, then?” “I do nothing of the kind. Man, I wonder at both you and the King. Neither of you understand the Scottish nature in the least. If the King had any comprehension, he would have had the heather afire years since. A man may dawner about Scotland all his life, hungry and athirst, cold and in rags, getting fewer kickshaws than kicks, none paying heed or anything else to him, but let him die the death of a martyr, and his tired bones are more potent than ten thousand live men. Ma sang! I’d like to see ye hang me! There’s poor Traquair, at his wit’s end for discouragement through dissension among the people and their leaders. You hang me, and you’ve done the trick for him.” Cromwell leaned back in his chair, his lids partially closed, but they could not veil the look of admiration he cast upon the man standing before him, who spoke enthusiastically of his own execution as if it were rather a good joke on his opponent. For some moments the General kept silence, then he said abruptly: “Will you take a commission in my army?” “I will not.” “I thought you were a fighter.”