Our inspection of Crockett’s colorful garb lasted for nearly a minute—during which time the frontiersman scrutinized us in turn with an expression of intense bemusement. At length, he shook his head slowly and declared: “I been standing here and studying over it, but I’m blessed if I can cipher it nohow.”

“To what precisely are you referring?” I inquired.

“I’m referring,” he replied, “to why you ’n’ Miz Virginny are rigged out in them nightgowns.”

Seeking to correct this gross misapprehension, I proceeded to offer a brief, though in all essential respects comprehensive, synopsis of the classical myth of whose central protagonists Sissy and I were meant to be the living simulacra. “To judge from your own costume, Colonel Crockett,” I continued, “I see that you have chosen to attend tonight’s fête in the guise of a typical wilderness huntsman.”

“Typical, my eye!” he exclaimed in a voice ringing with disdain. “You are looking at the most savagerous son of a wildcat there ever was—the original iron-jawed, brass-mounted, copper-bellied King of the Wild Frontier!”

At this resounding declaration, Muddy—who had come up behind our visitor and now stood directly to his rear just beyond the threshold of the parlor—clapped her hands delightedly.

“Well, now,” said Crockett, “I reckon we ought to make tracks. Poe, you ain’t the only one who’s bringing a purty gal to this frolic. I got one waiting outside, and I’ll wager she’s growin’ a mite antsy by now.”

Bidding good-night to Muddy—who saw us to the front door, where she bestowed a fond maternal hug upon both Sissy and myself—the three of us emerged into the street. In place of the anticipated chaise there stood an elegant barouche, which Crockett’s ever-obliging host, Mr. Potter, had placed at the frontiersman’s disposal for the evening. A liveried driver occupied the box, while a young woman sat in the rear of the coach. She was garbed in the elaborate costume of a Turkish sultana, with the lower half of her face concealed beneath the folds of a diaphanous veil. Even so, I immediately deduced that she was the somewhat brazen individual who had attached herself to the frontiersman following his ferocious battle with Neuendorf, and whose family name, as I recalled, was Mullany.

My conjecture in respect to her identity was confirmed when Crockett introduced his companion by name. As Sissy and I mounted the carriage, Miss Mullany scrutinized us with an expression of undisguised perplexity.

Before I could enlighten her as to the signification of our costumes, Crockett exclaimed: “Why, they are rigged out as Mr. Pigmalion and his gal.”

“I don’t believe I am familiar with those individuals,” Miss Mullany said amiably as Sissy and I settled into the seats directly across from her.