wild, hilarious, jubilant, heart-shattering shouts. "Gad! they run! See how they run!" said an English voice. "_Who_--run?" demanded Wolfe, roused as if from the sleep of death. "The enemy, sir. They give way . . . everywhere." "Go, one of you," commanded the dying general; "tell Colonel Burton to march Webb's regiment down Charles River to cut off retreat by the bridge. Now God be praised!" he added, sinking back; "I die in peace!" And the spirit of Wolfe had departed, leaving as a heritage a New Empire of the North, and an immortal fame. [Illustration: DEATH OF WOLFE (From the painting by Benjamin West)] {273} Fate had gone hard against the gallant Montcalm. The first volley from the English line had mowed his soldiers down like ripe wheat. At the second volley the ranks broke and the ground was thick strewn with the dead. When the English charged, the French fled in wildest panic downhill for the St. Charles. Wounded and faint, Montcalm on his black charger was swept swiftly along St. Louis road in the blind stampede of retreat. Near the walls a ball passed through his groins. Two soldiers caught him from falling, and steadied him on either side of his horse through St. Louis gate, where women, waiting in mad anxiety, saw the blood dripping over his horse. "My God! My God! Our marquis is slain!" they screamed. "It is nothing,--nothing,--good friends; don't trouble about me," answered the wounded general as he passed for the last time under the arched gateway of St. Louis road. "How long have I to live?" he asked the surgeon into whose house he had been carried. "Few hours, my lord." "So much the better," answered Montcalm. "I shall not live to see Quebec surrendered." Before daylight, he was dead. Wrapped in his soldier's cloak, laid in a rough box, the body was carried that night to the Ursuline Convent, where a bursting bomb had scooped a great hole in the floor. Sad-eyed nuns and priests crowded the chapel. By torchlight, amid tears and sobs, the body was laid to rest.