, each of which took its own route
through the forest. Walter Tyrrell alone remained with the king, their
dogs hunting together.

That was the last that was seen of William, the Red King, alive. When
the hunters returned he was not with them. Tyrrell, too, was missing.
What had become of them? Search was made, but neither could be found,
and doubt and trouble of soul pervaded Malwood-Keep.

The shades of night were fast gathering when a poor charcoal-burner,
passing with his cart through the forest, came upon a dead body
stretched bleeding upon the grass. An arrow had pierced its breast.
Lifting it into his cart, wrapped in old linen, he jogged slowly onward,
the blood still dripping and staining the ground as he passed. Not till
he reached the hunting-lodge did he discover that it was the corpse of a
king he had found in the forest depths. The dead body was that of
William II. of England.

Tyrrell had disappeared. In vain they sought him. He was nowhere to be
found. Suspicion rested on him. He had murdered the king, men said, and
fled the land.

Mystery has ever since shrouded the death of the Red King. Tyrrell lived
to tell his tale. It was probably a true one, though many doubted it.
The Frenchman had quarrelled with the king, men said, and had murdered
him from revenge. Just why he should have murdered so powerful a friend
and patron, for a taunt passed in jest, was far from evident.

Tyrrell's story is as follows: He and the king had taken their stations,
opposite one another, waiting the work of the woodsmen who were beating
up the game. Each had an arrow in his cross-bow, his finger on the
trigger, eagerly listening for the distant sounds which would indicate
the coming of game. As they stood thus intent, a large stag suddenly
broke from the bushes and sprang into the space between them.

William drew, but the bow-string broke in his hand. The stag, startled
at the sound, stood confused, looking suspiciously around. The king
signed to Tyrrell to shoot, but the latter, for some reason, did not
obey. William grew impatient, and called out,--

"Shoot, Walter, shoot, in the devil's name!"

Shoot he did. An instant afterwards the king fell without word or moan.
Tyrrell's arrow had struck a tree, and, glancing, pierced the king's
breast; or it may be that an arrow from a more distant bow had struck
him. When Tyrrell reached his side he was dead.

The French knight knew what would follow if he fell into the ha