“Sir,” answered Montcalm, “I deliver into your hands the honour of France. I shall spend my night with God preparing to die.”
Then he asked for pen and paper, and desired one of his officers to write at his dictation:—
“General,—The humanity of the English sets my mind at peace concerning the fate of the French prisoners and the Canadians.
“May you feel towards them as they have caused me to feel for them. Do not let them feel that they have changed masters. Be their protector, as I have been their father.”
“Let this letter be sent without delay to General Wolfe,” he said, when with difficulty he had succeeded in signing it.
“It is rumoured that James Wolfe is either dead or dying,” replied one of his officers.
“He also!” said Montcalm. “At least he is happier than I am,” he added; “he dies in the midst of his country’s triumph.”
Shortly after this his face became livid. His sufferings were intense; he could only from time to time give utterance to a few words in a low voice to Mercèdes, tender remembrances for the loved ones at home! About midnight the Bishop Pont Briand administered the last Sacraments of the Church in which he had lived and was now dying.
Gently, almost painlessly, he lingered until the dawn of a new day, and as the light began to creep into the sacred building his eyes closed. When the surgeon, who had never left him, saw the eyelids droop, he shook his head sadly, slipped his hand under the white uniform so deeply stained with blood, and waited a few minutes, then he rose.
“Gentlemen,” he said, turning to the group of officers who stood watching, “that great heart has ceased to beat.”
Mercèdes never moved, her head was bowed low on her father’s bier; Marthe alone wept, kneeling there beside her master.