rew near to the French position, Lord Howe pressed
forward to reconnoitre the approaches. This young nobleman, although
but thirty-four years of age, had already reached the top of his
profession. Keen and daring, with a hand of steel in a glove of
velvet, and a magnetism that charmed the regular and the provincial
alike, Lord Howe had become the soul of Abercrombie's army; and as he
fell in this engagement, shot through the breast by a skirmisher's
bullet, that army at once declined to its ruin.

Notwithstanding this loss, Abercrombie swept on along the Indian
trail; and when Montcalm looked down from the rough ramparts of
Carillon upon that splendid pageant, all hope of saving his stronghold
was banished. All hope save one. The indiscretion of the English
General might lead him to decide upon assault instead of siege. The
inept Abercrombie did not disappoint him--Carillon was to be taken at
the point of the bayonet!

All day long the fearless battalions of Old and New England hurled
themselves against the fatal breastwork; all day long those steady
columns of British infantry, headed by Campbell's Highlanders,
brilliantly valiant, pressed up the rough _glacis_ under a cross-fire
which swept them front and flank. At night two thousand of
Abercrombie's stubborn soldiery lay dead upon the field. Their
splendid valour had been all in vain against the invisible musketeers
of Montcalm, Levis, and Bourlamaque.

Among the slain was the brave Duncan Campbell of Inverawe, of whom
Parkman relates the following legend:--

"The ancient castle of Inverawe stands by the banks of
the Awe, in the midst of the wild and picturesque scenery
of the Western Highlands. Late one evening, before the
middle of the eighteenth century, as the laird, Duncan
Campbell, sat alone in the hall, there was a loud
knocking at the gate; and opening it, he saw a stranger,
with torn clothing and kilt besmeared with blood, who, in
a breathless voice, begged for asylum. He went on to say
that he had killed a man in a fray, and that the pursuers
were at his heels. Campbell promised to shelter him.
'Swear on your dirk!' said the stranger; and Campbell
swore. He then led him to a secret recess in the depths
of the castle.

"Scarcely was he hidden when again there was a loud
knocking at the gate, and two armed men appeared. 'Your
cousin Donald has been murdered, and we are looking for
the murderer!'