in front of the British troops were filled with French sharp-shooters,
who kept up a distant spattering fire. Here and there a soldier fell in
the ranks, and the gap was filled in silence.

At a little before ten the British could see that Montcalm was preparing
to advance, and in a few moments all his troops appeared in rapid
motion. They came on in three divisions, shouting after the manner of
their nation, and firing heavily as soon as they came within range. In
the British ranks not a trigger was pulled, not a soldier stirred, and
their ominous composure seemed to damp the spirits of the assailants. It
was not till the French were within forty yards that the fatal word was
given, and the British muskets blazed forth at once in one crashing
explosion. Like a ship at full career arrested with sudden ruin on a
sunken rock, the ranks of Montcalm staggered, shivered, and broke before
that wasting storm of lead. The smoke rolling along the field for a
moment shut out the view, but, when the white wreaths were scattered on
the wind, a wretched spectacle was disclosed: men and officers tumbled
in heaps, battalions resolved into a mob, order and obedience gone; and,
when the British muskets were levelled for a second volley, the masses
of the militia were seen to cower and shrink with uncontrollable panic.
For a few minutes the French regulars stood their ground, returning a
sharp and not ineffectual fire. But now, echoing cheer on cheer,
redoubling volley on volley, trampling the dying and the dead, and
driving the fugitives in crowds, the British troops advanced and swept
the field before them. The ardour of the men burst all restraint. They
broke into a run and with unsparing slaughter chased the flying
multitude to the gates of Quebec. Foremost of all, the light-footed
Highlanders dashed along in furious pursuit, hewing down the Frenchmen
with their broadswords and slaying many in the very ditch of the
fortifications. Never was victory more quick or more decisive.