LOOK upon the scene which now unfolds itself. You are gazing into the depths of that Hampshire forest which the Conqueror set apart for his kingly sport. It is cursed to his line by reason of the cruelties which he wreaked upon the forest dwellers when he burnt their roof-trees over their heads, and scattered them afar, to make a solitude for his deer. Two scions of his house have already perished in its glades.

The forest is silent. It is late afternoon, and the setting sun is even now gilding the upper branches of the spreading trees. Suddenly the silence is dispelled. You hear the sound of horns, the baying of dogs, the shouts of hunters, and a lordly stag flies past you. Now a pair of horsemen gallop up, and your eye is instantly arrested by the Red King. You recognize him instantly as a son of the Conqueror, though he seems but a caricature of his father.

Of middle stature, he is square and heavy of frame, with a restless eye, and a stammering tongue that can, nevertheless, rap out ready witticisms and biting sarcasms on occasion. Evil living and unbridled passion have left their marks on his ruddy and bloated countenance. He fears neither God nor man. His crafty ministers wring heavy fines from his barons, and he does not even spare the Church. Archbishop Anselm, that tender-hearted poet-dreamer, who showed the courage of a lion when fraud and wrong were brewing, alone held him in check. Now that Anselm is in exile, there is no wickedness that he will not do. Vicious, vain, boastful, and puffed up with pride, he has not an honest friend in the land.

Men hate him and mock him. With what gibes and sneers they tell that story of the chamberlain and the boots! Once his chamberlain brought him a pair of boots, saying that they had cost but three shillings. “Take them away,” roared the vainglorious fool, “they are not worthy of a king’s foot. Bring a pair that costs a mark of silver.” The cunning chamberlain, thereupon, brings a worse pair, and these the Red King pronounces worthy of his majesty. What a king! Ay, but far worse remains behind. There is no baseness, no cruelty, no injustice which he has not practised. Even now the revenues of bishops and abbots are flowing into his pocket, while “the hungry flock look up, and are not fed.” When disease attacks him he repents; when he recovers he is himself again.

But withal he is no craven. He fights like a man, and reveals much of the Conqueror’s skill and cunning. Fear he knows not. Men tell with wonder of the day when he set forth to subdue Normandy in the teeth of a storm. His mariners trembled, but not he. “Kings never drown, ye varlets!” he cried, and forthwith hove out on the tempestuous waters of the Channel.

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.”