He has received a carbine bullet through his head and his blood colors a great space around him.
One brave man, riding a roan horse, attempts to rally his companions.
He halts on a little knoll, wheels his horse to face us, and waves his hat to draw his companions to him.

A tall, lank fellow in the next four to me--who goes by the nickname of "'Leven Yards"-- aims his carbine at him, and, without checking his horse's pace, fires.

The heavy Sharpe's bullet tears a gaping hole through the Rebel's heart.

He drops from his saddle, his life-blood runs down in little rills on either side of the knoll, and his riderless horse dashes away in a panic.
At this instant comes an order for the Company to break up into fours and press on through the forest in pursuit.

My four trots off to the road at the right.