General Abercromby listened and frowned, and looked about him as though to take counsel with his officers.  But the best of these were away at the fight, and those with him were few and insignificant and inexperienced.

“Surely a little resolution and vigour would suffice to carry an insignificant breastwork, hastily thrown up only a few days ago,” he said, unwilling to confess himself in the wrong.  “I will order up the Highland regiments to your aid.  With their assistance you can make another charge, and it will be strange if you cannot carry all before you.”

Fritz compressed his lips, and his heart sank.

“I will give you a line to Colonel Bradstreet.  Tell him that reinforcements are coming, and that another concerted attack must be made.  It will be time enough to talk of sending for the artillery when we see the result of that.”

A few lines were penned by the General and entrusted to Fritz, who dashed back with burning heart to where the fight still raged so fiercely.  He heard the bagpipes of the Highlanders skirling behind as he reached the opening in the forest.  He knew that these brave men could fight like tigers; but to what avail, he thought, were so many gallant soldiers to be sent to their death?

The fighting in his absence had been hot and furious, but nothing had been done to change the aspect of affairs.  Intrepid men had assaulted the rampart, and even leaped upon and over it, only to meet their death upon the other side.

Once a white flag had been seen waving over the rampart, and for a moment hope had sprung up that the enemy was about to surrender.  The firing for that brief space had been suspended, the English raising their muskets over their heads and crying “Quarter!”—­meaning that they would show mercy to the foe; the French thinking that they were coming to give themselves up as prisoners of war.  The signal had merely been waved by a young captain in defiance to the foe.  He had tied his handkerchief to his musket in his excitement, without any intention to deceive.  But the incident aroused a bitter feeling.  The English shouted out that the French were seeking to betray them, and the fight was resumed with such fury that for a brief while the rampart was in real danger of being taken, and the French General was in considerable anxiety.

But the odds were too great.  The gallant assailants were driven back, and when Fritz arrived with his news there was again a slight cessation in the vehemence of the attack.

Bradstreet eagerly snatched at the letter and opened it.  Fritz’s face had told him something; the written words made assurance doubly sure.

He tore the paper across, and set his foot upon it.

“We can die but once,” he said briefly; “but it goes to my heart to see these brave fellows led like sheep to the slaughter.  England will want to know the reason why when this story is told at home.”