He had a pot shot to take, and a pot shot he would take.

He ignored three hundred muskets that were levelled at him.

He looked along his gun, adjusted it, and re-adjusted it to a hair's breadth.

The enemy's bullets pattered upon it: still he adjusted it delicately.

His men were groaning and tearing their hair inside at his danger.
At last it was levelled to his mind, and then his movements were as quick as they had hitherto been slow.