Isaac’s senses were insulted by the carnage of war.

* * * * *

He now noticed that the supports, led by his plucky aide at the foot of the hill, were flagging.  He shouted back, “Push on, York Volunteers!”

Our hero’s robust figure was a conspicuous object for the American riflemen.  While telling his men to take advantage of every bit of shelter, he paid little attention to himself.  His uniform, his position at the head of his men, his loud words of command, stamped him a man of mark, a soldier of distinction, a special target for Wool’s sharpshooters.

* * * * *

So far he had escaped the hail of shot by a miracle.  Picking his footsteps—­it was treadmill work—­he sprang forward, urging on his men by word and gesture.

* * * * *

A deflected bullet struck the wrist of his sword arm.  The wound was slight.  He again waved his sword, smiling his indifference and still speaking words of encouragement.

* * * * *

They were getting at close quarters now.  The redan was less than fifty yards above.

He was calling to those nearest him to hold their fire a moment, to prepare to rush the enemy and use their bayonets, when, from a thorn thicket, an Ohio scout, Wilklow by name, one of Moseley’s riflemen, stepped forward, and, singling out his victim, deliberately aimed at the General.  Several of the 49th, noticing the man’s movement, fired—­but too late.  The rifleman’s bullet entered our hero’s right breast, tore through his body on the left side, close to his heart, leaving a gaping wound.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  BROCK’S COAT, WORN AT QUEENSTON HEIGHTS]

Brock sank slowly to the ground, quite sensible of his grievous fate.  A grenadier, horribly mutilated, fell across him.  To those who ran to aid our hero, anxious to know the nature of his injury, he murmured a few broken sentences and—­turned to die.

He tried to frame messages to loved ones, and then, more audibly, as he gallantly strove to raise his head to give emphasis to his last faltering words—­the same Isaac Brock, unmindful of self and still mindful of duty—­he said, “My fall must not be noticed, nor impede my brave companions from advancing to victory.”

And with a sigh—­expired.

* * * * *

Thus died General Sir Isaac Brock, defender and saviour of Upper Canada.  Died the death he would have selected, the most splendid death of all—­that of the hero in the hour of victory, fighting for King and country, for you and me, and with his face to the foe.

* * * * *

Our hero had passed his last milestone.

* * * * *

For a brief space the body of Isaac Brock rested where it had fallen, about one hundred yards west of the road that leads through Queenston, and a little eastward of an aged thorn bush.