"I hope the people of England will be satisfied--I hope my dear country will do me justice!" said he, with touching earnestness; "oh, Anderson, you will see my friends at home as soon as you can--tell them everything--my poor mother----" Here his voice completely failed him; he became deeply agitated; but after a pause said, "Hope--Hope--I have much to say to him, but am too weak now! Are all my aides-de-camp well?" "Yes," replied Anderson, who did not wish to distress him by the information that young Captain Burrard was mortally wounded. "I have made my will, and--and--have remembered all my servants. Colbourne has it--tell Willoughby that Colbourne is to get his lieutenant-colonelcy.--Oh, it is a great satisfaction to me that we have beaten the French. Is Paget in the room?" "No," replied Anderson, in a low voice. "It is General Paget, I mean; remember me to him--he is a fine fellow! I feel myself so strong--ah, I fear that I shall be a long time in dying!" In the intervals of his faint and disjointed remarks the boom of the distant artillery was occasionally heard, and their fitful flashes reddened the walls and windows of the room where he lay. "Is that young lieutenant of the Fusiliers--Kennedy--is, is he here?" "I am here, sir," said Quentin, in a choking voice. "I cannot see you--the light of my eyes fails me now. I meant--I meant--for you." What he "meant" to have done, Quentin was fated never to know. In broken accents the general thanked the surgeons politely for the care they had taken; and apologized for the trouble he gave them. He then said to the son of Earl Stanhope, who served on his staff, "Remember me--Stanhope--to--your sister." He referred to the famous and brilliant Lady Hester Stanhope, whom he was said to have loved, and who died in Syria in 1839. Here his voice again completely failed him, and while pressing to his breast the hand of Colonel Anderson, who had saved his life at St. Lucia, he expired without a struggle in his forty-eighth year...... All stood in silence around the pallet whereon that brave gentleman and Christian soldier lay dead, and some time elapsed before they could realize the full extent of the calamity which had befallen them, and with moistened eyes they watched the pale still face, the fallen jaw, the shattered and blood-soaked form. Just as Colonel Anderson knelt down to close the eyes of his dead friend and commander, Quentin Kennedy, with a heavy sigh in his throat, a sob in his breast, issued from the house, and grasping the sabre of Colbert, Moore's doubly-prized gift, he leaped on his horse, and, as if to relieve himself from thoughts of grief and sorrow, galloped towards the battle-field. The night was now quite dark, and Sir John Hope had succeeded in following out Moore's dispositions so well, that he had driven the whole French line so far back that the British had now advanced far beyond their original position.