two of us, out of all that gallant company!" said one of these in
despairing tones. "Who are you, friend and comrade?"

"I am a nobleman, Godfrey, the son of Gilbert de L'Aigle. And you?" he
asked.

"I am Berold, a poor butcher of Rouen," was the answer.

"God be merciful to us both!" they then cried together.

Immediately afterwards they saw a third, who had risen and was swimming
towards them. As he drew near he pushed the wet, clinging hair from his
face, and they saw the white, agonized countenance of Fitzstephen. He
gazed at them with eager eyes; then cast a long, despairing look on the
waters around him.

"Where is the prince?" he asked, in tones that seemed to shudder with
terror.

"Gone! gone!" they cried. "Not one of all on board, except we three, has
risen above the water."

"Woe! woe, to me!" moaned Fitzstephen. He ceased swimming, turned to
them a face ghastly with horror, and then sank beneath the waves, to
join the goodly company whom his negligence had sent to a watery death.
He dared not live to meet the father of his charge.

The two continued to cling to their support. But the water had in it the
November chill, the night was long, the tenderly-reared nobleman lacked
the endurance of his humbler companion. Before day-dawn he said, in
faint accents,--

"I am exhausted and chilled with the cold. I can hold on no longer.
Farewell, good friend! God preserve you!"

He loosed his hold and sank. The butcher of Rouen remained alone.

When day came some fisherman saw this clinging form from the shore,
rowed out, and brought him in, the sole one living of all that goodly
company. A few hours before the pride and hope of Normandy and England
had crowded that noble ship. Now only a base-born butcher survived to
tell the story of disaster, and the stately White Ship, with her noble
freightage, lay buried beneath the waves.

For three days no one dared tell King Henry the dreadful story. Such was
his love for his son that they feared his grief might turn to madness,
and their lives pay the forfeit of their venture. At length a little lad
was sent in to him with the tale. Weeping bitterly, and kneeling at the
king's feet, the child told in broken accents the story which had been
taught him, how the White Ship had gone to the bottom at the mouth of
Barfleur harbor, and all on board been lost save one poor commoner.
Prince William, his son, was dead.

The king heard him to the end, with slowly whitenin