“Dr Martin, here he is at last! Father! Father! Stop!”
The next minute he had leaped down from the side of the waggon and was running towards the passing regiment, the men cheering madly with excitement as they saw their newly-promoted Major draw rein, and the next moment seize the little hands extended to him to be swung up on to the saddle and then cling to the excited officer’s neck. The cheer which had rung out before was as nothing to that which rose again and again as the men saw the little fellow kissing the bearded and convulsed face of their leader as wildly as if there was not a soul in sight; but those cheers drowned the Major’s hoarsely-uttered words:
“Oh, my boy! My boy! What are you doing here?”
“I’m a prisoner, father. That sergeant wouldn’t believe. But it’s all right now. Oh, I am so glad!”
“But Dr Martin?”
“He’s in that waggon,” cried Phil, giving his head a backward jerk, for he was too much excited to look back. “He’s a prisoner too because he’s French. Oh, I do like this. Let me ride here, father. May I hold the reins?”
The Major was silent for a few moments, feeling quite taken aback by the boy’s request.
“May I, father—please?”
“Yes, for a little while,” came the Major’s hoarse words at last; “for a little while, Phil, till I can pull myself together and think what to do. Forward, my lads!” he shouted, as he resumed his place, with the men cheering more wildly than ever as Phil rode with flushed face and sparkling eyes, in happy ignorance of the fact that he, a child in years, was in the ranks of the regiment that a few hours later was to head the advance in the great attack upon Quebec, in which the gallant British General who won Canada for the British Crown gloriously breathed his last.