So they hunted all that noon and afternoon. The sun was now setting. Tiril and the King were alone.[116] A stag bounded by: the King shot and slightly wounded the quarry. On, though, it still bounded in the full light of the setting sun. The King stood watching it, shading his eyes with his hands. At that moment another deer broke cover. Tiril this time shot, and the shaft lodged itself in the King’s breast.[117] He fell without a word or groan, vainly trying to pull out the arrow, which broke short in his hand. Thus perished William the Red. Tiril leapt on his horse. Henry galloped to Winchester, and the other nobles to their houses. One exception was there. William of Breteuil, following hard upon Henry to Winchester, honourably declared the rights of the absent Robert, to whom both Henry and himself had sworn fealty. William’s body was brought on a cart to the cathedral, the blood from his wound reddening the road.[118] There the next morning[119] he was buried, unlamented, unknelled, and unaneled.[120] [Illustration: Rufus’s Stone.] So runs the story as told by the Chroniclers. And to this day popular tradition not only repeats their tale, but points to the places associated with the event. Below our feet lies the lonely glen of Canterton, where the King is said to have fallen. The oak from which, as the legend runs, the arrow glanced, is long since dead, but a stone marks its site, now capped over with a hideous cast-iron case.[121] In the woods and in the village of Minestead still live some of the descendants of Purkess, who is reported to have carried the bleeding corpse in his charcoal-cart to Winchester along the road now known as the King’s Road. Twelve miles away, on the extreme south-west boundary of the Forest, close to the Avon, stands a smithy, on the site of the one where, the legend says, Walter Tiril’s horse was shod, and which, for that reason, to this day pays a yearly fine to the Crown: and the water close by, where the fugitive passed, is still called Tyrrel’s Ford. And Rufus lies in Winchester Cathedral, his bones now mixed with those of Canute; and under a marble tomb, in the south aisle of the presbytery, sleeps his brother Richard, slain also like himself in the Forest. So runs the story, unquestioned save here and there by some few faint doubts.[122] As to the tradition, I think we may at once set aside its testimony. The value of mere tradition in history weighs, or ought to weigh, nothing. Here and there tradition may be true in a very general sense, as when it says the Isle of Wight was once joined to Hampshire; but it is never particular in its dates, and is ever in too much hurry to compare facts. Tradition, as often as not, kills the murderer instead of the murdered; and makes the man who built the place to have been born there. Tradition is, in fact, the history of the vulgar, and the stumbling-block of the half-learned.