In the short action and pursuit the French lost fifteen hundred men,
killed, wounded, and taken. Of the remainder some escaped within the
city, and others fled across the St. Charles to rejoin their comrades
who had been left to guard the camp. The pursuers were recalled by sound
of trumpet, the broken ranks were formed afresh, and the English troops
withdrawn beyond reach of the cannon of Quebec. Townshend and Murray,
the only general officers who remained unhurt, passed to the head of
every regiment in turn and thanked the soldiers for the bravery they had
shown; yet the triumph of the victors was mingled with sadness as
tidings went from rank to rank that Wolfe had fallen.

In the heat of the action, as he advanced at the head of the grenadiers
of Louisburg, a bullet shattered his wrist, but he wrapped his
handkerchief about the wound, and showed no sign of pain. A moment more
and a ball pierced his side. Still he pressed forward waving his sword
and cheering his soldiers to the attack, when a third shot lodged deep
within his breast. He paused, reeled, and staggering to one side, fell
to earth. Brown, a lieutenant of the grenadiers, Henderson, a volunteer,
an officer of artillery, and a private soldier, raised him together in
their arms, and bearing him to the rear laid him softly on the grass.
They asked if he would have a surgeon, but he shook his head and
answered that all was over with him. His eyes closed with the torpor of
approaching death, and those around sustained his fainting form. Yet
they could not withhold their gaze from the wild turmoil before them,
and the charging ranks of their companions rushing through fire and
smoke. "See how they run," one of the officers exclaimed, as the French
fell in confusion before the levelled bayonets. "Who run?" demanded
Wolfe, opening his eyes like a man aroused from sleep. "The enemy, sir,"
was the reply; "they give way everywhere." "Then," said the dying