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 hands of
the king's companions. He could not hope to make people credit his tale.
Mounting his horse, he rode with all speed through the forest, not
drawing rein till the coast was reached. He had far outridden the news
of the tragedy. Taking ship here, he crossed over in haste to Normandy,
and thence made his way to France, not drawing a breath free from care
till he felt the soil of his native land beneath his feet. Here he lived
to a good age and died in peace, his life diversified by a crusading
visit to the Holy Land.
The end of the Red King resembled that of his father.
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