m not the rolling undulations of
the black-topped forest, not the tossing surface of the inland sea, nor
the white-pebbled beach laved by its pulsing waters. He saw instead a
white and dusty road, lined by green English hedge-rows. Back, over
there, beyond these rolling blue waves, back of the long water trail
over which he had come, there were chapel and bell and robed priest, and
the word which made all fast forever. But back of the wilderness
mission, back of the straggling settlements of Montreal and Quebec, back
of the blue waters of the ocean, there, too, were church and minister;
and there dwelt a woman whose figure stood now before his eyes, part of
this mental picture of the white road lined with the hedges of green.

A hand was laid on his shoulder, and he half started up in sudden
surprise. Before him, the sun shining through her hair, her eyes dark in
the shadow, stood Mary Connynge. A fair woman indeed, comely, round of
form, soft-eyed, and light of touch, she might none the less have been a
very savage as she stood there, clad no longer in the dress of
civilization, but in the soft native garb of skins, ornamented with the
stained quills of the porcupine and the bizarre adornments of the native
bead work; in her hair dull metal bands, like any Indian woman, upon her
feet little beaded moccasins--the very moccasin, it might have been,
which Law had first seen in ancient London town and which had played so
strange a part in his life since then.

"You startled me," said Law, simply. "I was thinking."

A sudden jealous wave of woman's divining intuition came upon the woman
at his side. "I doubt not," said she, bitterly, "that I could name the
subject of your thought! Why? Why sit here and dream of her, when here
am I, who deserve everything that you can give?"

She stood erect, her eyes flashing, her arms outstretched, her bosom
panting under the fringed garments, her voice ringing as it might have
been with the very essence of truth and passion. Law looked at her
steadily. But the shadow did not lift from his brow, though he looked
long and pondered.

"Come," said he, at length, gently. "None the less we are as we are. In
every game we take our chances, and in every game we pay our debts. Let
us go back to the camp."

As they turned back down the beach Law saw standing at a little distance
his lieutenant, Du Mesne, who hesitated as though he would speak.

"What is it, Du Mesne?" asked Law, excusing him