“Oh, granted,” replied Law, flicking lightly at the cuff of his tunic, “yet your errand still carries mystery.”

“You have at least heard of the Peace of Ryswick, I presume?”

“No; how should I?  And why should I care?”

“None the less, the king of England and the king of France are no longer at war, nor are their colonies this side of the water.  There are to be no more raids between the colonies of New England and New France.  The Hurons are to give back their English prisoners, and the Iroquois are to return all their captives to the French.  The Western tribes are to render up their prisoners also, be they French, English, Huron or Iroquois.  The errand of carrying this news was offered to me.  It agreed well enough with my own private purposes.  I had tracked you, Mr. Law, to Montreal, lost you on the Richelieu, and was glad enough to take up this chance of finding you farther to the West.  And now, by the justice of heaven, as I have said, I have found you easily.”

“And has Sir Arthur gone to sheriffing?  Has my friend become constable?  Is Sir Arthur a spy?  Because, look you, this is not London, nor yet New France, nor Albany.  This is Messasebe!  This is my valley.  I rule here.  Now, if kings, or constables, or even spies, wish to find John Law—­why, here is John Law.  Now watch your people, and go you carefully here, else that may follow which will be ill extinguished.”

Pembroke flung down his sword upon the ground in front of him.

“You are lucky, Mr. Law,” said he, “lucky as ever.  But surely, never was man so eminently deserving of death as yourself.”

“You do me very much honor, Sir Arthur,” replied Law.  “Here is your sword, sir.”  Stooping, he picked it up and handed it to the other.  “I did but ill if I refused to accord satisfaction to one bringing me such speech as that.  ’Tis well you wear your weapons, Sir Arthur, since you come thus as emissary of the Great Peace!  I know you for a gentleman, and I shall ask no parole of you to-night; but meantime, let us wait until to-morrow, when I promise you I shall be eager as yourself.  Come!  We can stand here guessing and talking no longer.  I am weary of it.”

They came now to the gate of the stockade, and there Pembroke stood for a moment in surprise and perplexity.  He was not prepared to meet this dark-haired, wide-eyed girl, clad in native dress of skin, with tinkling metals at wrist and ankle, and on her feet the tiny, beaded shoes.  For her part, Mary Connynge, filled with woman’s curiosity, was yet less prepared for that which appeared before her—­an apparition, as ran her first thought, come to threaten and affright.

“Sir Arthur!” she began, her trembling tongue but half forming the words.  Her eyes stared in terror, and beneath her dark skin the blood shrank away and left her pale.  She recoiled from him, her left hand carrying behind her instinctively the babe that lay on her arm.