“Support me; do not let them see me fall,” he murmured, striving with a superhuman will to keep himself erect.
At that moment Wolfe gave the order to charge, and the wild yell of the Highlanders, mingled with the British cheer, rose loud and fierce.
A shot shattered Wolfe’s wrist; he wrapped his handkerchief round it and went on. A second shot struck him; he still advanced. A third pierced his breast; he staggered and fell. Then the officers surrounding him carried him to the rear.
“Send for a surgeon,” said Lord St. Vincent.
“There is no need; it is all over with me,” he answered.
“They run; see how they run!” cried some one.
“Who run?” asked Wolfe, with a sudden return to life.
“The enemy, sir; they give way everywhere.”
“Tell Colonel Burton to cut off their retreat from the bridge,” he said; and turning on his side, he added, “Now, God be praised, I will die in peace.”
A few minutes later, for him the battle of life was over.