Mary Connynge stood, her eyes glancing from one to the other of the men before her.  She had seen them both proved brave men, strong of arm, undaunted of heart, both gallant gentlemen.  God, who makes the Mary Connynges of this earth, only can tell whether or not there arose in the heart of this savage woman, this woman at bay, scorned, rebuked, mastered, this one question:  Which?  If Mary Connynge hated John Law, or if she loved him—­ah! how must have pulsed her heart in agony, or in bitterness, as she took into her hand those lots which were the arbiters of life and death!

Teganisoris looked about him and spoke a few rapid words.  He caught Mary Connynge roughly by the shoulder and pulled her forward.  The two men stood with faces set and gray in the pitiless light of morn.  Their arms were fast bound behind their backs.  Eagerly the crowding savages pressed up to them, gesticulating wildly, and peering again and again into their faces to discover any sign of weakness.  They failed.  The pride of birth, the strength of character, the sheer animal vigor of each man stood him in stead at this ultimate trial.  Each had made up his mind to die.  Each proposed, not doubting that he would be the one to draw the fatal lot, to die as a man and a gentleman.

Teganisoris would play this game with all possible mystery and importance.  It should be told generations hence about the council fires, how he, Teganisoris, devised this game, how he played it, how he drew it out link by link to the last atom of its agony.  There was no receptacle at hand in which the dice could be placed.  Teganisoris stooped, and without ceremony wrenched from Mary Connynge’s foot the moccasin which covered it—­the little shoe—­beaded, beautiful, and now again fateful.  Sir Arthur smiled as though in actual joy.

“My friend,” said he, “I have won!  This might be the very slipper for which we played at the Green Lion long ago.”

Law turned upon him a face pale and solemn.  “Sir,” said he, “I pray God that the issue may not be as when we last played.  I pray God that the dice may elect me and not yourself.”

“You were ever lucky in the games of chance,” replied Pembroke.

“Too lucky,” said Law.  “But the winner here is the loser, if it be myself.”

Teganisoris roughly took from Mary Connynge’s hand the little bits of bone.  He cast them into the hollow of the moccasin and shook them dramatically together, holding them high above his head.  Then he lowered them and took out from the receptacle two of the dice.  He placed his hand on Law’s shoulder, signifying that his was to be the first cast.  Then he handed back the moccasin to the woman.

Mary Connynge took the shoe in her hand and stepped forward to the line which had been drawn upon the ground.  The red spots still burned upon her cheeks; her eyes, amber, feline, still flamed hard and dry.  She still glanced rapidly from one to the other, her eye as lightly quick and as brilliant as that of the crouched cat about to spring.