Meantime the French had given way, and were flying in all directions.A grenadier officer seeing this, called out to those around him, "See! they run!" The words caught the ear of the dying man.He raised himself, like one aroused from sleep, and asked eagerly, "Who run?" "The enemy, sir," answered the officer; "they give way everywhere.""Go, one of you, to Colonel Burton," said Wolfe: "tell him to march Webbe's (the 48th) regiment with all speed down to the St. Charles river, to cut off the retreat."His voice grew faint as he spoke, and he turned on his side, as if seeking an easier position. When he had given this last order, his eyes closed in death.When the news reached England, triumph and lamentation were strangely intermingled.Astonishment and admiration at the splendid victory, with sorrow for the loss of the gallant victor, filled every breast.Throughout all the land were illuminations and public rejoicings, except in the little Kentish village of Westerham,where Wolfe had been born, and where his widowed mother now mourned her only child.Wolfe's body was embalmed, and borne to the river for conveyance to England. The army escorted it in solemn state to the beach.They mourned their young general's death as sincerely as they had followed him in battle bravely.His remains were landed at Plymouth with the highest honours: minute-guns were fired, flags were hoisted half-mast high, and an escort with arms reversed received the coffin on the shore.