Which?  Which would it be?  Could she control this game?  Could she elect which man should live and which should die—­this woman, scorned, abased, mastered?  Neither of these sought to read the riddle of her set face and blazing eyes.  Each as he might offered his soul to his Creator.

The hand of Mary Connynge was raised above her head.  Her face was turned once more to John Law, her master, her commander, her repudiator.  Slowly she turned the moccasin over in her hand.  The white bone fell first, the red for a moment hanging in the soft folds of the buckskin.  She shook it out.  It fell with its face nearly parallel to the ground and alighted not more than a foot from the line, rebounding scarce more than an inch or so.  Low exclamations arose from all around the thickened circle.

“As I said, my friend,” cried Sir Arthur, “I have won!  The throw is passing close for you.”

Teganisoris again caught Mary Connynge by the shoulder, and dragged her a step or so farther along the line, the two dice being left on the ground as they had fallen.  Once more, her hand arose, once more it turned, once more the dice were cast.

The goddess of fortune still stood faithful to this bold young man who had so often confidently assumed her friendship.  His life, later to be so intimately concerned with this same new savage country, was to be preserved for an ultimate opportunity.

The white and the red bone fell together from the moccasin.  Had it been the white that counted, Sir Arthur had been saved, for the white bone lay actually upon the line.  The red fell almost as close, but alighted on its end.  As though impelled by some spirit of evil, it dropped upon some little pebble or hard bit of earth, bounded into the air, fell, and rolled quite away from the mark!

Even on that crowd of cruel savages there came a silence.  Of the whites, one scarce dared look at the other.  Slowly the faces of Pembroke and Law turned one toward the other.

“Would God I could shake you by the hand,” said Pembroke.  “Good by.”

“As for you, dogs and worse than dogs,” he cried, turning toward the red faces about him, “mark you! where I stand the feet of the white man shall stand forever, and crush your faces into the dirt!”

Whether or not the Iroquois understood his defiance could not be determined.  With a wild shout they pressed upon him.  Borne struggling and stumbling by the impulse of a dozen hands, Pembroke half walked and half was carried over the distance between the village and the brink of the chasm of Niagara.

Until then it had not been apparent what was to be the nature of his fate, but when he looked upon the sliding floor of waters below him, and heard beyond the thunderous voices of the cataract, Pembroke knew what was to be his final portion.

There was, at some distance above the great falls, a spot where descent was possible to the edge of the water.  Pembroke’s feet were loosened and he was compelled to descend the narrow path.  A canoe was tethered at the shore, and the face of the young Englishman went pale as he realized what was to be the use assigned it.  Bound again hand and foot, helpless, he was cast into this canoe.  A strong arm sent the tiny craft out toward midstream.