"The morning of the 13th September, 1759, has dawned; an astounding rumour fills the air; the citizens of Quebec repeat with bated breath: _Wolfe's army is at the gates of the city._ "Hark! What means this deafening roar of artillery--this hissing of shot and shell--these rolling, murderous volleys of musketry in the direction of the heights of Abraham? "Hark! to these loud cheers--British cheers mixed with the discordant yells of those savage warriors, Fraser's Highlanders! The fate of a continent has just been decided. The genius of William Pitt has triumphed, though victory was bought at a dear price. "Here comes from St. Louis gate [27] on his way to the Château, pale, but dauntless--on a black charger--supported by two grenadiers, one on each side of his horse, a General officer wearing the uniform which won at Fontenoy, won at Laufeldt, as well as at the Monongahela [28] and at Carillon. [29] A bloody trail crimsons the _Grande Allée_, St. Louis street, on that gloomy September day. My friends, 'tis the life-blood of a hero. Drop in reverential silence, on the moistened earth, a sympathetic tear; France's chivalrous leader, the victor of many battle-fields, has returned from his last campaign. "_Oh! mon Dieu! mon Dieu! Le Marquis est tué,_" is repeated by female voices as the death-stricken but intrepid general glides past, to which he courteously replies, trying to quiet their fears, 'that he was not seriously hurt, and not to distress themselves on his account.' '_Ce n'est rien! ce n'est rien! ne vous affligez pas pour moi, mes bonnes amies._' "You have all heard the account of the death-bed scene--of his tender solicitude for the good name of France--of his dying injunctions to de Ramesay, the King's lieutenant in charge of the Quebec Garrison, and to the Colonel of the Roussillon Regiment. '_Gentlemen, to your keeping I commend the honour of France. Endeavour to secure the retreat of my army to-night beyond Cape Rouge. As for myself, I shall pass the night with God, and prepare for death._'