"Defend yourself, M. de Lochiel; you, who love easy triumphs, defend yourself, traitor!" At this new insult, Archie folded his arms and answered, in a tone of tender reproach: "Thou, too, my brother Jules, even thou, too, hast thou condemned me unheard?" At these words a nervous shock seemed to paralyze the little remaining strength of poor Jules. The sword dropped from his hand and he fell forward on his face. Archie sent one of his men to the brook for water, and, without thinking of the danger to which he exposed himself, took his friend in his arms and carried him to the edge of the woods, where some of the wounded Canadians, touched at the sight of an Englishman bestowing so much care on their young officer, made no move to injure him, although they had reloaded their guns at the approach of his men. Archie examined his friend's wounds, and saw that he had fainted from loss of blood. A little cold water in his face soon brought him back to consciousness. He opened his eyes and looked at Archie, but made no attempt to speak. The latter clasped his hand, which seemed to return a gentle pressure. "Farewell, Jules," said Archie. "Farewell, my brother. Harsh duty forces me to leave you; but we shall meet again, in better days." And he turned back sorrowfully to his troop. "Now, my boys," said Lochiel, after throwing a rapid glance over the plain and listening to the confused noises of the distant flight, "now, my boys, no false delicacy, for the battle is hopelessly lost. We must now display the agility of our Highland legs, if we want to take a hand in future battles. Forward now, and do not lose sight of me." Taking advantage of every inequality of the ground, lending heedful ear to the shouts of the French, who were endeavoring to crowd the English into the St. Charles, Lochiel led his men into Quebec without further loss. This valiant company had already suffered enough. Half its men had been left on the field of battle, and of its officers Lochiel was the sole survivor. All honor to vanquished heroism! Honor to the English dead, whose bodies were buried in confusion with those of their enemies on the twenty-eighth day of April, 1760! Honor to the soldiers of France, over whose bodies grows green, with every succeeding spring, the turf of the Plains of Abraham! When the last trump shall sound, and these foes shall rise from their last sleep side by side, will they have forgotten their ancient hate, or will they spring once more at each other's throats? Honor to the vanquished brave! Among the soldiers whose names are bright on the pages of history there is but one who, on the morrow of a glorious triumph, uncovered his head before his captives and cried, "All honor to the vanquished brave!" He knew that his words would last forever, graven on the heart of France. Great soldiers there are many; but niggard Nature takes centuries to frame a hero.