“Why must these things be?” spoke Julian, beneath his breath.  “Why must men stand up to kill and be killed?  How long will it be before the reign of the Prince of Peace, when all these things shall be done away?”

Light showers were scudding over the landscape, sometimes blotting out the view, sometimes illumined by shafts of golden sunlight, which gave a curious glory to the scene.  The battle was set in array.  Every disposition which military genius could suggest had been made to avoid surprise or outflanking or any other peril.  Puffs of smoke from over the plains denoted the presence of ambushed Indians or Canadians, and skirmishers were scouring hither and thither to dislodge any parties who approached unpleasantly near.

The soldiers were bidden to lie down, to be safer from accident, and to rest themselves in preparation for what was coming.  The main body of the army was quiet, but to the left, where some woods and houses gave cover to the enemy, the fire be came galling, and some light infantry were sent out to make an end of the foes there, to take and burn the houses and scatter the marksmen.

This was successfully done, and again there was quiet.  Wolfe, who seemed to be everywhere at once, went round the field once again, cheered lustily wherever he appeared; grave, watchful, with the air of a man who knows that the crisis of his life is at hand, and that upon the issue of the day hang results greater than he can reckon or comprehend.

It was about ten in the morning before his quick eye saw signs that the enemy was at last advancing to take up the gage of battle so gallantly thrown down.  Hitherto the French had succeeded in avoiding a pitched encounter with their foe; now they must fight, or have their city hopelessly cut off from the basis of their supplies.  Wolfe knew that at last the hour had come, and his pale face flushed with a strange exultation as he saw the first white lines advancing towards him.

“At last!” he exclaimed—­“at last!  We have waited many months for this moment; now that it has come, pray Heaven we may strike a blow for England’s honour which France shall never forget!”

Julian’s attention was distracted by the sight of a little knot of men coming slowly towards the rear, where the surgeons were stationed to care for the wounded, who were to be carried there when possible.

“It is Fritz!” he exclaimed; “he has been wounded!”

Wolfe uttered an expression of concern, and stepped forward to inquire.  It had been the regiment in command of Fritz which had been sent to silence the sharpshooters in the farms and copses.  John Stark had gone with him, their former life as Rangers having well qualified them for this species of warfare.  Fritz was now being led back, white and bloody, one ball having lodged in his shoulder, and another in his foot.  He walked with difficulty, supported by two of his men.

“I am grieved to see you so!” cried Wolfe, with the ready concern he showed in any sufferings not his own.