"Then we must crush them," he said, and with pale set face he rode forth to battle.
It was ten o'clock when the fight began. The French attacked first.
The British awaited them calmly as they dashed on over the plain.
On they came nearer and nearer. Then suddenly the order was given,
and , cheering wildly, the British charged.
A shot struck Wolfe in the wrist. Without pausing he tied a handkerchief about it. Again he was hit. Still he went on. Then a third shot struck his breast, and he fell. Hastily he was carried to the rear, and laid upon the ground.
"It is all over with me," he sighed. Then he lay still in a sort of stupor.
Suddenly one of the officers beside him cried out, "They run! They run!"
"Who run?" said Wolfe, rousing himself.
"The enemy, sir," answered the officer, "they give way everywhere."
"Now God be praised," murmured Wolfe. "I die happy." Then turning on his side he died.
Everywhere the French fled, and in their mad rush they carried along with them their gallant leader, Montcalm. He was sorely wounded, but still sat his horse as he rode within the gates of Quebec. Here an excited, eager crowd was gathered, waiting for news. And when they saw Montcalm's well-known figure on his black horse they were seized with dismay. For his face was white and drawn and blood flowed from his breast.
"Alas! Alas!" cried a woman in a piercing voice of despair, "the
Marquess is killed!"