* * * * * They were getting at close quarters now. The redan was less than fifty yards above. He was calling to those nearest him to hold their fire a moment, to prepare to rush the enemy and use their bayonets, when, from a thorn thicket, an Ohio scout, Wilklow by name, one of Moseley's riflemen, stepped forward, and, singling out his victim, deliberately aimed at the General. Several of the 49th, noticing the man's movement, fired--but too late. The rifleman's bullet entered our hero's right breast, tore through his body on the left side, close to his heart, leaving a gaping wound. * * * * * [Illustration: BROCK'S COAT, WORN AT QUEENSTON HEIGHTS] Brock sank slowly to the ground, quite sensible of his grievous fate. A grenadier, horribly mutilated, fell across him. To those who ran to aid our hero, anxious to know the nature of his injury, he murmured a few broken sentences and--turned to die. He tried to frame messages to loved ones, and then, more audibly, as he gallantly strove to raise his head to give emphasis to his last faltering words--the same Isaac Brock, unmindful of self and still mindful of duty--he said, "My fall must not be noticed, nor impede my brave companions from advancing to victory." And with a sigh--expired. * * * * * Thus died General Sir Isaac Brock, defender and saviour of Upper Canada. Died the death he would have selected, the most splendid death of all--that of the hero in the hour of victory, fighting for King and country, for you and me, and with his face to the foe. * * * * * Our hero had passed his _last_ milestone. * * * * * For a brief space the body of Isaac Brock rested where it had fallen, about one hundred yards west of the road that leads through Queenston, and a little eastward of an aged thorn bush. * * * * * Above the dead soldier's head, clouds, sunshine and rustling foliage; beneath it, fallen forest leaves, moist and fragrant. About the motionless body swayed tussocks of tall grass and the trampled heads of wild-flowers. The shouts of the regulars, the clamor of the militia, the shrill war-cry of the Mohawks, and the organ notes of battle, were his requiem. Then the corpse was hurriedly borne by a few grief-stricken men of the 49th to a house in the village, occupied by Laura Secord--the future heroine of Lundy's Lane--where, concealed by blankets--owing to the presence of the enemy--it was allowed to remain for some hours, unvisited. * * * * * Later in the day Major Glegg, Brock's faithful aide--the brave Macdonell, in extreme agony, lay dying of his wounds--hastened to the spot, and finding the body of his lamented friend undisturbed, conveyed it to Niagara, "where it was bedewed by weeping friends whose hearts were agonized with bitterest sorrow."