Yet still the oncoming mass of French approached, the dropping fire never ceasing.  Nearer and nearer they came, and now were not fifty paces distant from the English lines.

“Crash!”

It was not like a volley of musketry; it was like a cannon shot.  The absolute precision with which it was delivered showed the perfect steadiness and nerve of the men.  Upon Wolfe’s face might be seen a smile of approbation and pride.  This was the way English soldiers met the foe; this was the spirit in which victory was won.

Another crash, almost as accurate as the first, and a few minutes of deafening clattering fire; a pause, in which nothing could be seen but rolling clouds of smoke; and then?

The smoke rolled slowly away, and as the pall lifted, a wild, ringing cheer broke from the English ranks, mingled with the yell of the Highlanders beyond.  The ground was covered with dead and wounded; the ranks of the oncoming foe were shattered and broken.  The Canadians had turned, and were flying hither and thither, only caring to escape the terrible fire, which in open country they could never stand.  In a few more seconds, as soon as the regulars saw that the red-coats were preparing to charge, they too flung down their muskets and joined the rout.

“Charge them, men, charge them!”

Wolfe’s voice rang like a clarion note over the field.  He placed himself at the head of one of the columns.  Julian and Humphrey were on either side of him.  The yell of the Highlanders was in their ears, and the huzzah of the English soldiers, as they dashed upon the retreating foe.

Their line had been a little broken here by the fire of the foe, and still from ambushed sharpshooters hidden upon the plain a more or less deadly fire was kept up.  Wolfe led where the danger was greatest and the firing most galling and persistent.

“Dislodge those men!” was the order which had just passed his lips, when Julian noticed that he seemed to pause and stagger for a moment.

“You are hurt!” he exclaimed anxiously, springing to his side; but Wolfe kept steadily on his way, wrapping his handkerchief round his wrist the while.  The blood was welling from it.  Julian insisted upon tying the bandage, finding that the wrist was shattered.

“You are wounded—­you will surely go back!” he said anxiously; but Wolfe seemed scarcely to hear.

The next moment he was off again with his men, directing their movements with all his accustomed skill and acumen.  Once again he staggered.  Julian dashed to his side; but he spoke no word.  If he would but think of himself!  But no; his soul was in the battle.  He had no care save for the issue of the day.

A sudden volley seemed to open upon them from a little unseen dip in the ground, masked by thick underwood.  Julian felt a bullet whiz so near to his ear that the skin was grazed and the hair singed.  For a moment he was dizzy with the deafening sound.  Then a low cry from Humphrey reached him.