Watch him closely. Behind his reckless air of gaiety there is an anxious foreboding. Last night he tossed on his couch and dreamed an ugly dream. He thought he was in a gorgeous minster hung with velvet and purple. All around were the shrines of the saints gleaming with gold and gems and ivory. Such riches even he, the despoiler of churches, had never looked upon, and his hands itched to clutch them. But when he tried to seize them they vanished, and an altar rose before him, whereon was lying a naked man. A lust to feed on the man’s flesh overcame him, and he ate of the body that lay before him. At length the victim spoke in accents stern beyond words, “Is it not enough that thou hast thus far grieved me with so many wrongs? Henceforth thou shalt eat of me no more.” The horror of the dream is still at the back of his mind, though he has quaffed the wine-cup until the disquieting vision no longer terrifies him. His counsellors have besought him not to venture into the forest to-day; but no man save Anselm, and he is beyond the seas, ever turned him from his purpose. Such is the man who now rides into the forest glade. While he jokes and jests with his companion, a startled stag springs out of the brushwood. Rufus slips from his horse and fits an arrow to his bow. He shoots, and the quarrel strikes the prey and wounds it slightly. “Shoot, man; shoot!” he shouts to his companion, shading his eyes with his hand to see the effect of another shot. The second bow twangs, and down goes the king with an arrow in his heart. What has happened no man can say. Some tell you that his companion’s shaft has glanced from a tree and has found its billet in the Red King’s breast. Some speak of an Englishman, cowering in the undergrowth, who has seized the moment to let fly the arrow of retribution. Some even aver that the deadly missile was sped by his own brother’s hand. No one knows, and no one cares. It is enough for all that a king whose life has been that of a wild beast perishes like a beast among the beasts. His companion, horrified at the sight of the dying king, and fearing that he will be accused of the crime, spurs his horse out of the forest, and does not check his steed till he is on the seashore, with a bark at hand to carry him to a foreign strand. There lies the king, the red blood ebbing from his false heart. “That arrow, by whomsoever shot, set England free from oppression such as she never felt before or after at the hand of a single man.” “Then a creaking cart came slowly, which a charcoal-burner drove; He found the dead man lying, a ghastly treasure-trove. He raised the corpse for charity, and on his wagon laid, And so the Red King drove in state from out the forest glade.” [Illustration] MATILDA, “LADY” OF ENGLAND. “_Old, unhappy, far-off things,_ _And battles long ago._”