Toby did as directed; whereupon a gasp of the utmost astonishment arose from the crowd. There, in Crockett’s hand, lay two flattened lead balls, one directly on top of the other. So unprecedented—so sheerly astonishing—was this sight that a dead silence, of nearly a minute’s duration, elapsed before the spectators could grasp its full significance.

The Count had indeed scored a bull’s-eye. Crockett, however, had then performed a feat that was nothing short of miraculous, firing his bullet directly into the hole produced by his competitor’s shot!

As Languedoc continued to gape in open-mouthed wonder at the conjoined pair of bullets in Crockett’s hand, the crowd erupted in a tumultuous burst of applause. At length, when the cheering had subsided, the Frenchman gazed into Crockett’s face with a look of unqualified admiration. Addressing the frontiersman in a deeply respectful—if not reverential—voice, he declared: “Never have I seen anything like it. Colonel Crockett, I bow to your superiority. Vraiment, fame has not made too great a flourish of trumpets when speaking of your skill as a marksman.”

Thrusting out his right hand, Crockett replied: “No hard feelings, Count. You are a mighty good shot yourself—though a monstrous slow one—and I hope I ain’t been guilty of committing a fox paw, as you Frenchies call it, in suggesting otherwise!”

After declaring Colonel Crockett the champion—and congratulating the Count on a feat of marksmanship that, had it been accomplished against any less remarkable opponent, would surely have earned him a victory—Mrs. Nicodemus raised her arms towards the assembled company and invited them to return to the ballroom forthwith and resume the festivities. This proposal was heartily endorsed by everyone present, and—with much laughter and merry conversation—the picturesque revellers proceeded indoors, while the orchestra—which had suspended its performance for the duration of the contest—struck up a lively gavotte.

The hours that ensued were ones of unrelieved revelry and mirth. To the wildly melodious sounds of the orchestra, the gay masqueraders swirled about the ballroom like a host of writhing phantasms. Around and around they spun, taking hue from the many-colored tapestries and the blazing flambeaux, and causing the rollicking—the delirious—music to seem as the echo of their own ecstatic steps.