hrow away their fire," Wolfe had ordered. Now forty yards, if
you measure it off in your mind's eye, is short space between hostile
armies. It is not as wide as the average garden front in a suburban
city. Then suddenly the thin red line of the English spoke in a crash
of fire. The shots were so simultaneous that they sounded like one
terrific crash of ear-splitting thunder. The French had no time to
halt before a second volley rent the air. Then a clattering fire
rocketed from the British like echoes from a precipice. With wild
halloo the British were charging, . . . charging, . . . charging, the
Highlanders leading with their broadswords flashing overhead and their
mountain blood on fire, Wolfe to the fore of the grenadiers till a shot
broke his wrist! Wrapping his handkerchief about the wound as he ran,
the victorious young general was dashing forward when a second shot hit
him and a third pierced his breast. He staggered a step, reeled, fell
to the ground. Three soldiers and an officer ran to his aid and
carried him in their arms to the rear. He would have no surgeon. It
was useless, he said. "But the day is ours, and see that you keep it,"
he muttered, sinking back unconscious. A moment later he was roused by
wild, hilarious, jubilant, heart-shattering shouts.

"Gad! they run! See how they run!" said an English voice.

"_Who_--run?" demanded Wolfe, roused as if from the sleep of death.

"The enemy, sir. They give way . . . everywhere."

"Go, one of you," commanded the dying general; "tell Colonel Burton to
march Webb's regiment down Charles River to cut off retreat by the
bridge. Now God be praised!" he added, sinking back; "I die in peace!"
And the spirit of Wolfe had departed, leaving as a heritage a New
Empire of the North, and an immortal fame.

[Illustration: DEATH OF WOLFE (From the painting by Benjamin West)]

{273}

Fate had gone hard against the gallant Montcalm. The first volley from
the English line had mowed his soldiers down like ripe wheat. At the
second volley the ranks broke and the ground was thick strewn with the
dead. When the English charged, the French fled in wildest panic
downhill for the St. Charles. Wounded and faint, Montcalm on his black
charger was swept swiftly along St. Louis road in the blind stampede of
retreat. Near the walls a ball passed through his groins. Two
soldiers caught him from falling, and steadied him on either side of
his horse through St.