ring 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.

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 maste