"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."
With him died the last hope of New France. The story of New France
was done. The Story of Canada was about to begin as well as that of
her mighty neighbour. For as a great English historian has said,
"With the triumph of Wolfe on the Heights of Abraham began the
history of the United States.
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