"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 for refuge was the garish Turk, Rullecour's ally.
Suddenly the now frightened, crying child got into his path and tripped
him up. Wild with rage he made a stroke at her, but at that instant his