As he ran, a British soldier fell in front of him.

The youth dropped the sword and grasped the dead man's musket.
The child clapped her hands on the window.
"It's Ro--it's Ro!" she cried, and disappeared again.
"Ro," with white face, hatless, coatless, pushed on through the melee.
Rullecour, the now disheartened French general, stood on the steps of the Cohue Royale.

With a vulgar cruelty and cowardice he was holding the Governor by the arm, hoping thereby to protect his own person from the British fire.
Here was what the lad had been trying for--the sight of this man Rullecour.

There was one small clear space between the English and the French, where stood a gun-carriage.

He ran to it, leaned the musket on the gun, and, regardless of the shots fired at him, took aim steadily.
A French bullet struck the wooden wheel of the carriage, and a splinter gashed his cheek.