re discharged at him. One bullet cut the coat on his shoulder,
another grazed the back of his hand, a third scarred the pommel of the
saddle, and still another wounded his horse. Again and again the English
called upon him to dismount, for he was made a target, but he refused,
until at last the horse was shot under him. Then once more he joined in
the hand-to-hand encounter.

Windows near the ground, such as were not shattered, were broken by
bullets. Cannon-balls embedded themselves in the masonry and the heavy
doorways. The upper windows were safe, however: the shots did not range
so high. At one of these, over a watchmaker's shop, a little girl was to
be seen, looking down with eager interest. Presently an old man came in
view and led her away. A few minutes of fierce struggle passed, and then
at another window on the floor below the child appeared again. She saw a
youth with a sword hurrying towards the Cohue Royale from a tangled mass
of combatants. 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. He did not move, but took sight again, and fired.
Rullecour fell, shot through the jaw. A cry of fury and dismay went up
from the French at the loss of their leader, a shout of triumph from the
British.

The Frenchmen had had enough. They broke and ran. Some rushed for
doorways and threw themselves within, many scurried into the Rue des
Tres Pigeons, others madly fought their way into Morier Lane.

At this moment the door of the watchmaker's shop opened and the little
girl who had been seen at the window ran into the square, calling out:
"Ro! Ro!" It was Guida Landresse.

Among the French flying