"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.