And heavy, heavy as a hundred-pound weight poor Adolf's heart might well have felt in his brave breast, when he appeared on the ground on the momentous day. He was very much depressed, and the secret encouragement of the judges, who wished him well, did not cheer him. "It is all useless now," he murmured. But, strangely enough, Bogislaf seemed no less moved, nay, even more agitated than his cousin. He was pale, his large blue eyes looked dim and sunken, and his particular friends noticed, to their horror, that when the cousins shook hands, as they always did before every contest, his hand--his strong brown hand--trembled like that of a timid girl. The cousins, who were to fire alternately, drew lots; Adolf had the first shot. He was a long time in taking aim, raised and lowered his gun several times, and finally hit the last ring but one. "I knew it beforehand," he said, covering his eyes, and would have liked to stop his ears; but he listened intently, and drew a long breath, when instead of the "centre" he expected, the number of the last ring on the target was mentioned, and repeated in a loud tone by one of the judges. Was it possible? Well then, there was still hope. Adolf collected all his powers; he shot better and better, three, four, six, nine, and ten, and again six and ten; and Bogislaf always remained one ring behind him, neither more nor less--always one ring. "He is playing with him, as a cat plays with a mouse," the judges said to each other after the first three shots had been fired. But Bogislaf grew paler, and his hand trembled more and more violently at every trial, and only grew steady at the moment when he discharged the gun; but he was always one ring behind Adolf, and now came the last shot, the worst Adolf had made. In his terrible excitement he had just grazed the outer edge of the target; if Bogislaf now hit the centre, he would be the victor: the result of the long struggle, the magnificent estate, the beautiful bride--all, all depended upon that one shot. Pale as death, Bogislaf stepped forward, but his hand no longer trembled; firmly, as if his arm and the gun were one, he took aim, the glittering barrel did not swerve a hair's breadth, and now the report crashed upon the stillness. "It has hit the mark," said the judges. The markers went forward and sought again and again, they could not find the bullet; the judges also went to the spot and searched and searched, but they could not find it either. The unprecedented, almost incredible thing had happened--Bogislaf had not even hit the target.