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 whitening face and
horror-stricken eyes. At the conclusion of the child's narrative the
monarch fell prostrate to the floor, and lay there long like one
stricken with death. The chronicle of this sad tragedy ends in one short
phrase, which is weighty with its burden of grief,--From that day on
King Henry never smiled again!