The boats drifted on in death-like silence. Suddenly, as the tide bore them inshore and the mighty wall of rock loomed above them, they were sharply challenged by a sentry. “Qui vive?” he cried. A Highland officer replied in good French, “La France.” “Of what regiment?” demanded the sentry. “The Queen’s,” answered the Highlander, and the sentry was satisfied. A sigh of relief escaped from the commander, and the boats glided on. Presently another sentry challenged, but he too was deceived. In a few moments more the boats lightly ran aground in a little cove. The men disembarked silently and scrambled up the wooded precipice on their hands and knees. The French guard at the top was captured, and loud British huzzas proclaimed that at last a footing had been gained on the coveted spot. Before the day broke Wolfe had marshalled his men on the Heights of Abraham, and in the gray dawn they saw the city almost within their grasp. When they became visible, Montcalm was greatly alarmed. “This is a serious business,” he said. Bugles and mounted messengers called in his troops. To save the citadel he was obliged to abandon his entrenchments and give fight in the open. The battle that followed was singularly brief in duration, yet it settled the fate of Canada. The French advanced, firing rapidly; but the British reserved their fire until the enemy was within close range. Then a fearful hail of bullets sped from their muskets. The French wavered, and as the British reloaded and advanced, they turned and fled. Wolfe was wounded in the wrist as he led the charge, but he wrapped a handkerchief about the wound and pushed on. Soon after another bullet struck him in the breast. “Don’t let my men see me drop,” he said as they carried him to the rear. Here he lay, his eyes glazed, and his life fast ebbing away. Suddenly one of the little group about him cried, “They run; see, they run!” The dying man roused himself as though from sleep. “Who run?” he asked. “The enemy, sir,” was the reply; “they give way everywhere.” The dying flame of life flickered up for a moment, and he gave a clear, emphatic order for cutting off the retreat. This done, he turned on his side, murmuring, “Now God be praised, I die happy.” Wolfe was dead.