Dear old Achille! These were the last words he spoke. When they reached the lines at Montmorency he was dead. The scheming and haughty baroness and the humble and faithful servitor had met the same fate. Death does indeed bring us all down to one level, but only in the grave--not beyond it. [Illustration: Tailpiece to Chapter VIII] [Illustration: Headpiece to Chapter IX] CHAPTER IX. The Marquis de Beaujardin and his son had met again, but under circumstances distressing enough to both of them, and it was with sorrowful hearts that they now proceeded together to Quebec. As they passed through the village of Beauport on their way, they became aware that a large portion of the English fleet had approached the shore, and was to all appearance making preparations for a repetition of the attack made on the neighbouring redoubts some weeks before, whilst other vessels were standing on towards Quebec. Night came on as Isidore and his father reached the town; there all was bustle and excitement, and every one was anticipating a fresh attack on the Montmorency lines before daybreak. There was an attack indeed, but not in the quarter where Montcalm expected it. Before daybreak on the following morning the great mass of the enemy's forces, which had been secretly carried past the town to a considerable distance up the river during the night, was stealthily dropping down again, and was then landed on the beach at Le Foullon, now immortalised by the name of "Wolfe's Cove." History scarcely contains a more exciting chapter than that which records this daring plan, and the equally daring manner in which it was achieved. Leading his troops up by a single narrow and rugged path--the Highlanders actually climbing up the precipitous face of the cliff itself--Wolfe had by daybreak arrayed his little army of between four and five thousand men on the Plains of Abraham, only a mile from the ramparts of the fortress. A couple of hours later Montcalm had led out his forces to try the issue of a pitched battle before Quebec.