When the tossing eddies subsided, the pale moonlight looked down on but
two souls of all that gay and youthful company. These clung to a spar
which had broken loose from the mast and floated on the waves, or to the
top of the mast itself, which stood above the surface.
"Only 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.
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