Law looked at Pembroke, and they both regarded Mary Connynge and the babe.  “At least,” said Law, “they spare the woman and the child.  So far very well.  Sir Arthur, we are at the last hazard.”

“I have asked them to take me,” said Pierre Noir, “for I am an old man and have no family.  But they will not listen to me.”

Pembroke passed his hand wearily across his face.  “I have behind me so long a memory of suffering,” said he, “and before me so small an amount of promise, that for myself I am content to let it end.  It comes to all sooner or later, according to our fate.”

“You speak,” said Law, “as though it were determined.  Yet Pierre says it will not be both of us, but one.”

Pembroke smiled sadly.  “Why, sir,” said he, “do you think me so sorry a fellow as that?  Look!” and he pointed to Mary Connynge and the child.  “There is your duty.”

Law followed his gaze, and his look was returned dumbly by the woman who had played so strange a part in the late passages of his life.  Never a word with her had Law spoken regarding his plans or concerning what he had learned from Pembroke.  As to this, Mary Connynge had been afraid to ask, nor dare ask even now.

“Besides,” went on Pembroke later, as he called Law aside, “there is something to be done—­not here, but over there, in England, or in France.  Your duty is involved not only with this woman.  You must find sometime the other woman.  You must see the Lady Catharine Knollys.”

Law sunk his head between his hands and groaned bitterly.

“Go you rather,” said he, “and spend your life for her.  I choose that it should end at once, and here.”

“I have not been wont to call Mr. Law a coward,” said Pembroke, simply.

“I should be a coward if I should stand aside and allow you to sacrifice yourself; nor shall I do so,” replied the other.

“They say,” broke in Pierre Noir, who had been listening to the excited harangues of first one warrior and then another, “that both warriors are great chiefs, and that both should go together.  Teganisoris insists that only one shall be offered.  This last has been almost agreed; but which one of you ’tis to be has not yet been determined.”

Dawn came through the narrow door and open roof holes of the lodge.  The rising of the sun seemed to bring conviction to the Iroquois.  All at once the savage council broke up and scattered into groups, which hurried to different parts of the village.  Presently these reappeared at the central lodge.  There sounded a concerted savage chant.  A ragged column appeared, whose head was faced toward the cataract.  There were those who bore strings of beads and strips of fur, even the prized treasures of the tufted scalp locks, whose tresses, combed smooth, were adorned with colored cloth and feathers.

Pierre Noir was silent; yet, as the captives looked, they needed no advice that the sacrificial procession was now forming.