The next minute he had leaped down from the side of the waggon and was running towards the passing regiment, the men cheering madly with excitement as they saw their newly-promoted Major draw rein, and the next moment seize the little hands extended to him to be swung up on to the saddle and then cling to the excited officer's neck. The cheer which had rung out before was as nothing to that which rose again and again as the men saw the little fellow kissing the bearded and convulsed face of their leader as wildly as if there was not a soul in sight; but those cheers drowned the Major's hoarsely-uttered words: "Oh, my boy! My boy! What are you doing here?" "I'm a prisoner, father. That sergeant wouldn't believe. But it's all right now. Oh, I am so glad!" "But Dr Martin?" "He's in that waggon," cried Phil, giving his head a backward jerk, for he was too much excited to look back. "He's a prisoner too because he's French. Oh, I do like this. Let me ride here, father. May I hold the reins?" The Major was silent for a few moments, feeling quite taken aback by the boy's request. "May I, father--please?" "Yes, for a little while," came the Major's hoarse words at last; "for a little while, Phil, till I can pull myself together and think what to do. Forward, my lads!" he shouted, as he resumed his place, with the men cheering more wildly than ever as Phil rode with flushed face and sparkling eyes, in happy ignorance of the fact that he, a child in years, was in the ranks of the regiment that a few hours later was to head the advance in the great attack upon Quebec, in which the gallant British General who won Canada for the British Crown gloriously breathed his last. CHAPTER EIGHT. "I wish all this fighting would finish, Dr Martin," said Phil one day, with a sigh. "It seems very dreadful, and my father is always away. But," he added, "it's very nice being near him." "In the midst of all this horrible excitement?" "Yes; I don't mind that much, only seeing the poor men brought here wounded. I say, how they like me to go and talk to them when their wounds have been tied up! Look here!" "What have you got there?" said the Doctor, as the boy pulled something from his breast. "Letter," said Phil, shortly. "This makes six I'm to take care of and send when we go away." "Six letters?" "Yes; they're only written with pencil, and I don't remember the men now who gave them to me, but they were all wounded, and they said I was to send them home." "Poor fellows," said the Doctor, with a sigh. "Yes," said Phil. "I mean to show them to father some day and ask him to help me to send them. Ah! Here he is!" For at that minute the Major hurried into the tent. "Just to say good-bye to you, Phil, my boy." "Oh, father," cried the little fellow, with his face clouding over; "don't go away and leave me! You're always saying good-bye." "Phil!" sternly.