The sentry was satisfied and let the boats pass. But they were not safe yet. A little further on they were challenged again. The same officer replied. "Speak louder!" cried the sentry. "Hush!" replied the Highlander, "provision boats, I say. Do not make a noise; the British will hear us." The sentry was quite deceived. He let the boats pass, and very soon the men were safely landed. Then the climb began. Like wild mountain cats the men dashed at it. They swung themselves up by branches of trees, gripping projecting stones and roots with hand and knee. It was hot, breathless work, but soon they were near the top. But they had been heard. Once more the challenge rang out, "Who goes there?" "France," panted a voice from below. But this time the sentry was not deceived. He could see nothing, but he fired at a venture down into the darkness. It was too late. The first men had reached the top, and the guard was overpowered. So hour by hour up the steep cliff the red coats swarmed unhindered. When morning dawned four thousand British stood upon the plains of Abraham. "This is a very serious business," said Montcalm when he heard of it, "but it can only be a small party." Soon, however, more news was brought to him. It was no small party. "Then we must crush them," he said, and with pale set face he rode forth to battle. It was ten o'clock when the fight began. The French attacked first. The British awaited them calmly as they dashed on over the plain. On they came nearer and nearer. Then suddenly the order was given, and , cheering wildly, the British charged. A shot struck Wolfe in the wrist. Without pausing he tied a handkerchief about it. Again he was hit. Still he went on. Then a third shot struck his breast, and he fell. Hastily he was carried to the rear, and laid upon the ground. "It is all over with me," he sighed. Then he lay still in a sort of stupor. Suddenly one of the officers beside him cried out, "They run! They run!" "Who run?" said Wolfe, rousing himself. "The enemy, sir," answered the officer, "they give way everywhere." "Now God be praised," murmured Wolfe. "I die happy." Then turning on his side he died. Everywhere the French fled, and in their mad rush they carried along with them their gallant leader, Montcalm. He was sorely wounded, but still sat his horse as he rode within the gates of Quebec. Here an excited, eager crowd was gathered, waiting for news. And when they saw Montcalm's well-known figure on his black horse they were seized with dismay. For his face was white and drawn and blood flowed from his breast. "Alas! Alas!" cried a woman in a piercing voice of despair, "the Marquess is killed!" "It is nothing, it is nothing, good friends," he replied. "Do not trouble about me." So saying he fell from his horse into the arms of one of his officers. That night he died. He was glad to go. "It is better for me," he said, "for I shall not live to see Quebec surrender."