but with all
his faculties clear.

"What is it they are saying all around?" he asked anxiously. "How
goes the battle? how is it with our General?"

"The battle truly is won--or so I believe," answered Humphrey, in a
husky voice. "God grant that the gallant Wolfe may live to know
that success has crowned his efforts--that the laurel wreath will
be his, even though it be only laid upon his tomb!"

"Is he then wounded?"

"Mortally, they say."

A spasm of pain contracted Fritz's face.

"Then Quebec will be dearly purchased," he said. "Humphrey, help me
to move; I would look upon his face once again!"

Humphrey gave the desired assistance. They were bringing in the
wounded, French and English both, to this place of shelter; but the
spot where Wolfe lay was regarded as sacred ground. It was still
and quiet there, though in the distance the din of battle sounded,
and the sharp rattle of musketry or the booming of artillery could
be heard at this side and that.

Fritz limped slowly across the open space, and halted a dozen paces
from where Wolfe lay; half supported in the arms of Julian, whose
face was stern with repressed grief.

The ashen shadow had deepened upon the face of the dying man. He
seemed to be sinking away out of life. The long lashes lay upon the
waxen cheek; the deep repose of the long, last sleep seemed to be
falling upon the wasted features. Fritz felt an unaccustomed mist
rising before his eyes. He thought he had never before seen a
nobler countenance.

The few standing about the wounded General looked from him to the
distant plain, where the battle tide was rolling farther away, and
from which, from time to time, arose outbursts of sudden sound--the
wild screech of the Highlanders, the answering cheer of the
English, the spattering, diminishing shots, and now and again a
sharp volley that told of some more determined struggle in one
place or another.

"Look how they run! look, look--they run like sheep!" cried
Humphrey, breaking into sudden excitement, as his trained sight,
without the aid of glasses, took in the meaning of that confused
mass of men.

Julian felt a thrill run through the prostrate form he was holding.
The eyes he had never thought to look upon again opened wide. Wolfe
raised his head, and asked, with something of the old ring in his
voice:

"Who run?"

"The enemy, sir," eagerly replied those who stood by. "They are
melting away like smoke. They give way everywhere. The