"Yet, if you wish words, take them. Monsieur, the
Iroquois are allies of the English. Your warfare with them is but a
step in pursuit of larger game. In founding an empire for your own
land you would take one away from mine. You hope in the end to crush
the English on this continent. Have I stated you correctly, monsieur?"
I bowed.
She laughed--a laugh more bitter than my own had been. "I am indeed
the plaything of Fate," she said a little wildly. "But I will marry
you. You saved my life. Yes, more. You threw your career into the
balance for an unknown man, your foe. You jeopardized all that you
hoped for, and you never whined nor lost sleep. You are a superb
gamester, monsieur."
I smiled. "Not enough of a gamester to accept your sacrifice,
mademoiselle."
She clenched her hands. "I will marry you," she retorted. "You shall
follow out your purpose. Though, after all, you cannot succeed. Who
are you? A dreamer, a soldier of fortune, a man without place or
following. You think slowly, and your heart rules your head. How can
you hope to wrest an empire from--from us? You cannot do it. You
cannot. But you shall have your chance. You gave me mine and you
shall have yours.
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