The hand of Mary Connynge was raised above her head. Her face was turned once more to John Law, her master, sam tsui tim commander, her repudiator. Slowly she turned the moccasin over in her hand. The white bone fell first, the red for a moment hanging in the soft folds of the buckskin. She shook it out. It fell with its face nearly parallel to the ground and alighted not more than a sam tsui tim from the line, rebounding scarce more than an inch or so. Low exclamations arose from all around the thickened circle. The throw is passing close for you.