'Gentlemen, To Your
Keeping I Commend The Honour Of France.
Endeavour to secure the
retreat of my army to-night beyond Cape Rouge.
As for myself, I shall
pass the night with God, and prepare for death.'
"At nine o'clock in the evening of that 14th of September, 1759, a
funeral cortege, issuing from the castle, winds its way through the
dark and obstructed streets to the little church of the Ursulines.
With the heavy tread of the coffin-bearers keeps time the measured
footsteps of the military escort. De Ramesay and the other officers of
the garrison following to their resting-place the lifeless remains of
their illustrious commander-in-chief. No martial pomp was displayed
around that humble bier, but the hero who had afforded at his dying
hour the sublime spectacle of a Christian yielding up his soul to God
in the most admirable sentiments of faith and resignation, was not
laid in unconsecrated ground. No burial rite could be more solemn than
that hurried evening service performed by torchlight under the
dilapidated roof of a sacred asylum, where the soil had been first
laid bare by one of the rude engines of war - a bombshell. The grave
tones of the priests murmuring the Libera me, Domine were responded
to by the sighs and tears of consecrated virgins, henceforth the
guardians of the precious deposit, which, but for inevitable fate,
would have been reserved to honour some proud mausoleum. With gloomy
forebodings and bitter thoughts de Ramesay and his companions in arms
withdrew in silence.
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