erment, but
with them were found bits of military trappings, so his tale may have
been correct. In the year 1841, near to the spot, was discovered a large
quantity of shot and shell left by the retreating army.

Adjoining the grounds of the Chateau de Ramezay was the mansion of
General Ralph Burton, who fought close to Wolfe in the siege of Quebec,
to whom his dying words were spoken, and who carried out his last
command, which decided the day. As Wolfe lay half unconscious, the riot
of the battle growing dull on his failing senses, they were roused by
the cry, "They run!" He opened his glazed eyes and asked, "Who run?" and
the reply was, "The French!" With a supreme effort he turned to Burton,
and ordered him, saying, "Command Webb to march down to the St. Charles
and cut off the retreat at the bridge"; and then amid the crash and
carnage of war, he murmured, "Now I thank God, and die contented," and
instantly expired.

[Illustration]

THE CHATEAU DE VAUDREUIL.

A short distance to the south-west is the spot on which stood the
Chateau and famous gardens of the Marquis de Vaudreuil, the last French
Governor of Canada. Imagination can forget the miles of docks and
warehouses, the electricity and commerce with which we are entering the
twentieth century, and fancy it sees again the old vice-regal palace, a
miniature in Canadian forests of the gay court at the Tuilleries, with
its bewitchment of lace, silk and velvet, powdered wigs and the
exaggerated politeness and exquisite bows of _la grande dame_ and _le
chevalier_ of the time.

Let us step back to the winter of 1758 and '59. The mountain is
snow-capped and the St. Lawrence is frozen several feet thick, making
good roads for the shaggy Canadian pony and _cariole_, or heavy
_traineau_ with wooden runners. In the early winter's evening, lights
gleam through the small windows of the earthen citadel which guards the
_Porte St. Martin_, and the clash of arms or halberds, and the pacing of
the sentries' footsteps, are heard at every closed gate of the little
walled town. Patches of warm light from candle and hearth checker the
snow which lies glistening on the sidewalks, for there are no street
lamps on the St. Paul, St. Mary or Notre Dame streets of these old days.

Under the night sky, the storehouses look like gloomy prisons, but
cheerful groups talk and laugh, as the beaux and belles bend their steps
along the narrow streets to the Governor's salon. As the