bayonets of the
Forty-Seventh scattered the soldiers of Languedoc into flying
companies.

Early in the action Wolfe had been hit in the wrist by a bullet, but
he concealed this wound with his handkerchief. A few minutes later,
however, as he pressed forward, sword in hand, at the head of the
charging Louisbourg Grenadiers, a musket ball struck him in the
breast. They bore him, mortally wounded, to the rear.

"It's all over with me," he murmured. The mist of death was already
gathering in his eyes.

"They run; see how they run!" exclaimed Lieutenant Brown of the
Grenadiers, who supported him. "Who run?" demanded the General like
one roused from sleep. "The enemy, sir," responded the subaltern. "Go,
one of you, to Colonel Burton," returned Wolfe, with an earnestness
that detained the spirit in his almost lifeless body; "tell him to
march Webb's regiment down to the St. Charles to cut off their retreat
from the bridge."

Then, overcome at last, he turned on his side and whispered, "Now, God
be praised, I will die in peace!"

CHAPTER XV

MURRAY AND DE LEVIS

Within the beleaguered city the sights and sounds of battle caused
sickening excitement. An enemy who had gained the heights by such
determined valour was destined for victory; and the weary garrison and
townsfolk, as they watched and waited anxiously on the ramparts, were
more than half prepared for the view presently to meet their eyes. A
fresh wind lifting the thick clouds of smoke from the battlefield
revealed the scattered legions of France in flight before a conquering
army, wildly dashing towards the city gates or the bridge of boats
crossing the St. Charles. Montcalm sought in vain to rally his
stricken battalions, and was borne backward in the confusion of their
mad retreat, until suddenly, pierced by a bullet, he sank in the
saddle. Bravely keeping his seat with support from a soldier on either
side, he succeeded in entering the city by the St. Louis Gate. Here
the excited crowd, which had gathered to hear the latest news from the
field, raised a troubled cry at sight of their vanquished chief pale
and streaming with blood. "_Mon Dieu, O mon Dieu! le Marquis est
tue!_" they wailed. "It is nothing, it is nothing, do not distress
yourselves for me, my good friends," responded the broken hero.

His black charger slowly bore him down the _Grande Allee_ and along
the Rue St. Louis, leading a sad procession to the house of Arnoux the
surgeon. Bei