“The battle truly is won—­or so I believe,” answered Humphrey, in a husky voice.  “God grant that the gallant Wolfe may live to know that success has crowned his efforts—­that the laurel wreath will be his, even though it be only laid upon his tomb!”

“Is he then wounded?”

“Mortally, they say.”

A spasm of pain contracted Fritz’s face.

“Then Quebec will be dearly purchased,” he said.  “Humphrey, help me to move; I would look upon his face once again!”

Humphrey gave the desired assistance.  They were bringing in the wounded, French and English both, to this place of shelter; but the spot where Wolfe lay was regarded as sacred ground.  It was still and quiet there, though in the distance the din of battle sounded, and the sharp rattle of musketry or the booming of artillery could be heard at this side and that.

Fritz limped slowly across the open space, and halted a dozen paces from where Wolfe lay; half supported in the arms of Julian, whose face was stern with repressed grief.

The ashen shadow had deepened upon the face of the dying man.  He seemed to be sinking away out of life.  The long lashes lay upon the waxen cheek; the deep repose of the long, last sleep seemed to be falling upon the wasted features.  Fritz felt an unaccustomed mist rising before his eyes.  He thought he had never before seen a nobler countenance.

The few standing about the wounded General looked from him to the distant plain, where the battle tide was rolling farther away, and from which, from time to time, arose outbursts of sudden sound—­the wild screech of the Highlanders, the answering cheer of the English, the spattering, diminishing shots, and now and again a sharp volley that told of some more determined struggle in one place or another.

“Look how they run! look, look—­they run like sheep!” cried Humphrey, breaking into sudden excitement, as his trained sight, without the aid of glasses, took in the meaning of that confused mass of men.

Julian felt a thrill run through the prostrate form he was holding.  The eyes he had never thought to look upon again opened wide.  Wolfe raised his head, and asked, with something of the old ring in his voice: 

“Who run?”

“The enemy, sir,” eagerly replied those who stood by.  “They are melting away like smoke.  They give way everywhere.  The day is ours!”

The young General half raised himself, as though he would fain have seen the sight; but his dim eyes took in nothing.

“Tell Colonel Burton,” he said, speaking with his old decision, “to march Webb’s regiment down to the St. Charles, and cut off their retreat from the bridge.”

Humphrey was off almost before the words had left his lips.  He would be the one to carry the General’s last message.  Wolfe heard him go, and smiled.  He knew that Humphrey was the trustiest of messengers.  He looked up into Julian’s face.