If the fame of Daniel Morgan as one of the most intrepid of soldiers depended alone on his conduct at the storming of Quebec, it would live as long as the heroic deeds of the Revolution are remembered of men. At the height of a tempest in which the blinding snow was driven with terrible effect, in the early hours of the first day of the New Year, 1775, the assault began. Armed with scaling-ladders and spontoons, as well as rifles, Morgan’s men, with their captain at their head, were first over the walls. With a sublime courage and a voice which rang above the roar of the tempest he commanded his men, and they, with a devotion as faithful as it was unquestioning, obeyed. Into the heart of the town they fought their way. But, alas, the brave fellows were not supported. The disastrous results of the assault—the wounding of Arnold at its commencement, the death of Montgomery, the brave, while leading those sixty heroes from New York, and the capture of Morgan, of the lion’s heart—are tales of devotion which every American schoolboy knows and which were so extraordinary as to become the subject of public eulogy in the Commons of Great Britain. With “the flower of the rebel army,” Morgan was “cooped up” in the town. His half-starved and poorly clad men were all but frozen in the terrible northeast storm. Their eyes could not endure the hail; their faces were “hoar with frost” and weird with pendant icicles; their rifles were practically useless. Finding himself alone with a few of his men and a sprinkling of brave Pennsylvanians, and confronted in a narrow street by his massed enemies, he resolved to cut his way through. The attempt was madness itself. At last, he stood at bay with his back to a wall. With tears streaming down his face, he refused to surrender and challenged his enemies to come and take his sword. A hundred muskets were levelled at his breast, when several of his men begged him to resist no further. Denouncing his enemies as cowards, he acquiesced in the importunities of his followers, but refused to surrender his sword to any person save a noncombatant priest who chanced to be near.