Brushing his eyes and urging his big grey to greater speed, “Master Isaac,” eager to reach the scene of trouble, struck across the village, his horse’s hoof-beats bringing many a citizen to the door to “God speed him.”  Some came out to follow him, and many a good wife’s face was pressed to the window to watch “The General!  God bless and spare him,” as he headed his charger for the Queenston Road and Brown’s Point.  Among the more zealous hastening after Brock were Judge Ralph Clench and a few old half-pay officers of His Majesty’s service, who hurried to Queenston to range themselves in the ranks of the volunteers.  Others joined as the signal guns and the bells of the church of St. Mark’s and the court-house spread the alarm.

His road lay up hill.  Seven miles back from the shore of Lake Ontario stretched the height of land, extending west from the river to the head of the lake—­a gigantic natural dam, over 300 feet high and twenty miles through; a retaining wall of rock, the greatest original fresh-water barrage in the world.

He paused a moment at Frields to order the militia company there to follow.  Close to Brown’s Point he met another galloper, S.P.  Jarvis, of the York volunteers, who was riding so furiously that he could not check his horse, but shouted as he flew by, “The Americans are crossing the river in force, sir.”  Jarvis wheeled and overtook the General, who, without reining up, slackened his speed sufficiently to tell the rider not to spare his horse, but to hurry on to Fort George and order General Sheaffe to bring up his entire reserve and let loose Brant’s Indian scouts.  A mile or so farther on, Jarvis met Colonel Macdonell, in hot pursuit of their beloved commander.  The aide, in his haste, had left his sword behind him, and borrowed a less modern sabre from Jarvis, who continued his mad gallop towards Fort George, little thinking he had seen the last of his gallant General and the dashing aide, meeting, a few minutes later, Major Glegg, also riding post haste to overtake the General.

Meanwhile our hero had halted for a moment at Brown’s Point, only to learn that Cameron’s Toronto company of volunteers had already started, on their own initiative, up the river.  Riding hard, he overtook the excited militiamen.  Speaking a word to the officer in charge, he wheeled his horse in the direction of the Heights, calling upon the detachment in his well-known voice, and in a way that never failed to exact obedience: 

“Now, my men, follow me.”

* * * * *

The east showed signs of approaching day, and Brock, only two miles from Queenston, was treated to a spectacle that quickened his pulses.  Shells were bursting on the mountain side above the village.  The shadows of the dying night were streaked with the light from an incessant fire of small-arms.  Grapeshot and musket-balls were ploughing up inky river and grim highland.  At Vrooman’s battery, on Scott’s