They took him to the little farmhouse, and laid him upon the bed they had prepared.  The doctors came, and looked grave; for the fever was high, the suffering keen, and the wasted frame seemed little able to withstand the ravages of disease.  Yet never a murmur passed his lips; and when there came intervals of comparative ease, he would ask of those about him how affairs without were proceeding, giving orders from time to time with all his old acumen and force, and never forgetting to inquire for the wounded who had been brought off from the ill-starred assault, and had been given the best quarters which the camp afforded.  He had never any pity for himself, but always plenty to spare for others.

Great gloom hung over the camp.  Not only were the soldiers depressed by their repulse, and by the apparent impossibility of getting into the city, but they were in fear and trembling lest they should also lose their brave General.

“If Wolfe goes, hope goes,” was a common saying in the camp.  They seemed to know by intuition that with him would expire all hope of achieving an almost impossible victory.

Fritz and Julian nursed the sick man; and never were nurses more skilful and tender.  Humphrey constituted himself messenger and forager, bringing everything he could get that the invalid was likely to need, and keeping them informed of everything that went on at the different camps.

Other vessels had passed the guns of Quebec.  Scouts from the interior reported disaffection toward the French cause all through Canada.  English soldiers were carrying the terror of the British arms through large tracts of country.  The French were becoming anxious and dispirited.

So much they learned during those days of waiting; but they could rejoice but little whilst Wolfe lay low, racked with pain which no medicine could alleviate, and in danger of sinking through the wearing exhaustion which followed.

“How will it end? how will it end?” spoke Fritz to himself one day late in August, as he stepped outside the house to obtain a breath of air.  The next moment he gave a great start, and held out his hands in a gesture of amazement,

“What—­who—­how—­is it a ghost I see?”

A hearty laugh was the answer, and his hands were gripped in a clasp that was very certainly one of flesh and blood, to say nothing of bone and muscle.

“Ghost indeed!  Nay, Fritz, you know better than that!  It is John Stark himself, come to fulfil his promise, and to bring to General Wolfe the news that Ticonderoga has fallen!”

Chapter 3:  A Daring Design.

Ticonderoga fallen!  The news was like new wine in the veins of Wolfe.  Ill as he was, he insisted that Stark should be brought to his bedside, and he eagerly entreated the bold Ranger to tell him the whole story.