ped, they stand on the threshold
of the great divide--that whispered to this "knight of the sword" his
doom? Was it this clearer comprehension that caused our hero to bow his
head as a faint message from an unseen messenger reached him? With a
sigh of resignation he arose from the unfinished manuscript and passed
on to his bedroom.

* * * * *

Boom! Boom! Boom!

* * * * *

A muffled, indistinct roar, a confusion of sounds, aroused the
half-conscious sleeper. Brock sprang from his couch, partly dressed.

The antique clock chimed one--two--three!

"Listen," he muttered to himself, "that was not a signal gun. Surely it
was the sound of sustained firing." As he unlocked the outer door,
opening on the barrack-square, the sky above faintly aglow with the
light of warning beacons, the low, steady roll of musketry and louder
roar of distant cannon convinced him that this was far more serious than
"the war between sentries."

"My good Porter," he said, speaking calmly to his excited servant, who,
himself awakened, came rushing to his master, "have Alfred saddled at
once while I complete dressing, and inform Major Glegg and Colonel
Macdonell that I am off up the river to Queenston."

In another minute Isaac Brock was in the saddle.

As he passed through the gates, thrown open by the sentry, a dragoon,
mire from head to foot from furious riding, handed him a despatch
announcing that the enemy had landed in force at Queenston. A second
later, in response to the pressure of his knees, his horse was carrying
our hero at a wild gallop across the common that separated his quarters
from the upper village.

Day was near to breaking. The earth steamed from the heavy rain. Passing
objects rose out of the dark mists, magnified and spectral.

At the residence of Captain John Powell, Brock reined up. The household
was astir, aroused by the ominous roar of artillery carried down by the
river from the gorge above. He stayed, without dismounting, long enough
to take a cup of coffee brought to him by General Shaw's daughter--a
"stirrup cup"--his last. Then, giving his charger the spur, he rode away
to death and distinction, tenderly waving a broken good-bye to the
sad-eyed woman at the porch. This was his betrothed, who faintly
fluttered her kerchief in weeping farewell to the gallant lover she
would never see again.

Brushing his eyes and urging his big grey to greater