lank companies, Wool
believed that the attacking party was composed exclusively of regulars,
so steady was their advance. His own force now consisted of 500 men,
over 300 of whom were regulars. Notwithstanding his much greater
strength and vastly superior position, being protected by artificial
brush-shelters and logs, and the withering fire with which he met the
dogged progress of the British, his flanks, pressed by Williams and
Macdonell, began to shrink. The moment was a critical one for our hero.

The supreme effort must be made.

Glancing below, Brock, even at that instant, for a fleeting moment was
conscious of the beauty of the country spread beneath him. Almost as far
as eye could reach extended an immense, partly pastoral plain, studded
with villages, groves, winding streams, cultivated farms, orchards,
vineyards and meadows. In places a dense forest, decorated with autumn's
mellow tints, and furrowed by the black gorge of the Niagara, stretched
to the horizon. Across all, shadows of racing clouds gave emphasis to
the brilliant flood of sunshine. No fairer scene ever greeted the eye of
man. The entire landscape breathed peace. Above it, however, in detached
masses, hung lurid billows--the smoke of battle.... The serene vision
faded, and in its place, in brutal contrast, came cruel, imperious bugle
calls, the metallic rattle of fire-arms, the deep thunder of artillery,
the curdling cry of wounded men.

Isaac's senses were insulted by the carnage of war.

* * * * *

He now noticed that the supports, led by his plucky aide at the foot of
the hill, were flagging. He shouted back, "Push on, York Volunteers!"

Our hero's robust figure was a conspicuous object for the American
riflemen. While telling his men to take advantage of every bit of
shelter, he paid little attention to himself. His uniform, his position
at the head of his men, his loud words of command, stamped him a man of
mark, a soldier of distinction, a special target for Wool's
sharpshooters.

* * * * *

So far he had escaped the hail of shot by a miracle. Picking his
footsteps--it was treadmill work--he sprang forward, urging on his men
by word and gesture.

* * * * *

A deflected bullet struck the wrist of his sword arm. The wound was
slight. He again waved his sword, smiling his indifference and still
speaking words of encouragement.

*