far side of a little knoll and seated on a grenadier's
folded coat, while the grenadier who had taken it off
ran over to a spring to get some water. Wolfe knew at
once that he was dying. But he did not yet know how the
battle had gone. His head had sunk on his breast, and
his eyes were already glazing, when an officer on the
knoll called out, 'They run! They run! 'Egad, they give
way everywhere!' Rousing himself, as if from sleep, Wolfe
asked, 'Who run?'--'The French, sir!'--'Then I die content!'
--and, almost as he said it, he breathed his last.

He was not buried on the field he won, nor even in the
country that he conquered. All that was mortal of him--his
poor, sick, wounded body--was borne back across the sea,
and carried in mourning triumph through his native land.
And there, in the family vault at Greenwich, near the
school he had left for his first war, half his short life
ago, he was laid to rest on November 20--at the very time
when his own great victory before Quebec was being
confirmed by Hawke's magnificently daring attack on the
French fleet amid all the dangers of that wild night in
Quiberon Bay.

Canada has none of his mortality. But could she have
anything more sacred than the spot from which his soaring
spirit took its flight into immortal fame? And could this
sacred spot be marked by any words more winged than these:

HERE DIED
WOLFE