g the English
victors to show clemency to the French prisoners.

It is said that a fissure ploughed by a cannon ball within the walls of
the Ursuline Convent furnished him a fitting soldier's grave.

One of the sisterhood, an eye-witness of the event, described the burial
in the following touching and graphic words:--

"At length it was September, with its lustrous skies and pleasant
harvest scenes. The city was destroyed, but it was not taken. Would not
the early autumn, so quickly followed by winter, force the enemy to
withdraw their fleet? For several days the troops which had been so
long idle were moving in various directions above and below Quebec, but
they were watched and every point guarded, but no one dreamed of the
daring project the intrepid Wolfe was meditating. The silence of the
night told no tale of the stealthy march of five thousand soldiers. The
echoes of the high cliff only brought to the listening boatmen the
necessary password. No rock of the shelving precipice gave way under the
cat-like tread of the Highlanders accustomed to the crags of their
native hills, but the morning light glittered on serried rows of British
bayonets, and in an hour the battle of the Plains changed the destinies
of New France. The remnant of the French army, after turning many times
on their pursuers, completely disappeared. Their tents were still
standing on the Plains of Beauport, but their batteries were silent and
trenches empty--their guns still pointed, but were mute.

"At nine o'clock in the evening a funeral _cortege_ issuing from the
castle, wound its way through the dark and obstructed streets to the
little church of the Ursulines. The measured foot steps of the military
escort kept time with the heavy tread of the bearers, as the officers of
the garrison followed the lifeless remains of their illustrious
commander-in-chief to their last resting place. No martial pomp was
displayed around that humble bier and rough wooden box, which were all
the ruined city could afford the body of her defender; but no burial
rite could be more solemn than that hurried evening service performed by
torchlight under the war-scarred roof of the Convent, as with tears and
sighs were chanted the words 'Libera me Domine.'"

Some years ago an Englishman, Lord Aylmer, caused to be placed within
the convent enclosure a tablet with the words carved in marble:--

Honneur
a
Montcalm.
Le Destin en l