It was the 1st of August. He had passed the night at Malwood Keep, a castle used as a hunting-seat in the very heart of the forest. His brother Henry, with whom he had become reconciled, was with him. A numerous suite accompanied him, among whom was one of the private friends of William, a great hunter like himself, one Walter Tyrrel, a French nobleman, who possessed large estates in Poix and Ponthieu. During the night the king had been agitated by terrible dreams: he had been heard to invoke "the name of Our Lady, which was not his custom;" but he seemed to have forgotten all this and was preparing cheerfully for the fatigues and pleasures of the day. While he was putting on his buskins a workman approached and presented him with six new arrows. He examined them, and taking four for himself, gave the two others to Walter Tyrrel, with the remark, "The good marksman should have the good weapons." As he was breakfasting with a good appetite, one of the monks of the abbey of St. Peter at Gloucester brought him letters from his abbot. During the night one of the brethren had been tormented with dismal visions. {122} He had seen Jesus Christ seated upon His throne, and at His feet a woman supplicating him on behalf of the human beings who were groaning under the yoke of William. The king laughed at the omen. "Do they take me for an Englishman," said he, "with their dreams? Do they think I am one of those idiots who abandon their course or their affairs because an old woman chances to dream or sneeze? Come, Walter de Poix! To horse!" The hunting party had dispersed over the forest: Walter Tyrrel alone remained with the king. Their dogs hunted in company. Both were in search of prey when a great stag, disturbed by the commotion, unexpectedly passed between the king and his companion. William immediately drew his bow: the string of his weapon broke, and the arrow did not shoot. The stag had stopped, surprised by the noise, but not perceiving the hunters. The king had made a sign to Tyrrel, but he did not draw his bow. The king became angry. "Shoot, Walter!" he exclaimed; "Shoot, in the devil's name!" An arrow flew, no doubt that of Tyrrel; but instead of striking the stag it buried itself in the breast of the king. He fell without uttering a word. Walter ran to him and found him dead. Fear or remorse seized upon Tyrrel; he mounted his horse again and galloping to the sea coast, got aboard a vessel, passed into Normandy, and did not rest until he had taken refuge upon the territory of the king of France. The news of this accident had become known in the forest; but no one gave a thought to the dead body of the king. Henry had hastened to Winchester, and had already put his hand upon the keys of the Royal Treasury when William of Breteuil joined him out of breath. "We have all," he said, "thou as well as I and the barons, sworn fidelity and homage to Duke Robert thy brother if the king should die first. Absent or present, right is right."