Fitz-Stephen hurried the Prince into a boat，with some few Nobles.
'Push off，'he whispered；'and row to land.It is not far，and the sea is smooth.The rest of us must die.'
But，as they rowed away，fast，from the sinking ship，the Prince heard the voice of his sister MARIE，the Countess of Perche，calling for help.He never in his life had been so good as he was then.He cried in an agony，'Row back at any risk！I cannot bear to leave her！'
They rowed back.As the Prince held out his arms to catch his sister，such numbers leaped in，that the boat was overset.And in the same instant The White Ship went down.
Only two men floated.They both clung to the main yard of the ship，which had broken from the mast，and now supported them.One asked the other who he was？He said，'I am a nobleman，GODFREY by name，the son of GILBERT DE L'AIGLE.And you？'said he.'I am BEROLD，a poor butcher of Rouen，'was the answer.Then，they said together，'Lord be merciful to us both！'and tried to encourage one another，as they drifted in the cold benumbing sea on that unfortunate November night.
By-and-by，another man came swimming towards them，whom they knew，when he pushed aside his long wet hair，to be Fitz-Stephen.'Where is the Prince？'said he.'Gone！Gone！'the two cried together.
'Neither he，nor his brother，nor his sister，nor the King's niece，nor her brother，nor any one of all the brave three hundred，noble or commoner，except we three，has risen above the water！'Fitz-Stephen，with a ghastly face，cried，'Woe！woe，to me！'and sunk to the bottom.
The other two clung to the yard for some hours.At length the young noble said faintly，'I am exhausted，and chilled with the cold，and can hold no longer.Farewell，good friend！God preserve you！'So，he dropped and sunk；and of all the brilliant crowd，the poor Butcher of Rouen alone was saved.In the morning，some fishermen saw him floating in his sheep-skin coat，and got him into their boat-the sole relater of the dismal tale.
For three days，no one dared to carry the intelligence to the King.
At length，they sent into his presence a little boy，who，weeping bitterly，and kneeling at his feet，told him that The White Ship was lost with all on board.The King fell to the ground like a dead man，and never，never afterwards，was seen to smile.
But he plotted again，and promised again，and bribed and bought again，in his old deceitful way.Having no son to succeed him，after all his pains ('The Prince will never yoke us to the plough，now！'said the English people)，he took a second wife-ADELAIS or ALICE，a duke's daughter，and the Pope's niece.Having no more children，however，he proposed to the Barons to swear that they would recognise as his successor，his daughter Matilda，whom，as she was now a widow，he married to the eldest son of the Count of Anjou，GEOFFREY，surnamed PLANTAGENET，from a custom he had of wearing a sprig of flowering broom (called Gen坱in French)in his cap for a feather.As one false man usually makes many，and as a false King，in particular，is pretty certain to make a false Court，the Barons took the oath about the succession of Matilda (and her children after her)，twice over，without in the least intending to keep it.The King was now relieved from any remaining fears of William Fitz-Robert，by his death in the Monastery of St.Omer，in France，at twenty-six years old，of a pike-wound in the hand.And as Matilda gave birth to three sons，he thought the succession to the throne secure.
He spent most of the latter part of his life，which was troubled by family quarrels，in Normandy，to be near Matilda.When he had reigned upward of thirty-five years，and was sixty-seven years old，he died of an indigestion and fever，brought on by eating，when he was far from well，of a fish called Lamprey，against which he had often been cautioned by his physicians.His remains were brought over to Reading Abbey to be buried.
You may perhaps hear the cunning and promise-breaking of King Henry the First，called 'policy'by some people，and 'diplomacy'by others.Neither of these fine words will in the least mean that it was true；and nothing that is not true can possibly be good.
His greatest merit，that I know of，was his love of learning-I should have given him greater credit even for that，if it had been strong enough to induce him to spare the eyes of a certain poet he once took prisoner，who was a knight besides.But he ordered the poet's eyes to be torn from his head，because he had laughed at him in his verses；and the poet，in the pain of that torture，dashed out his own brains against his prison wall.King Henry the First was avaricious，revengeful，and so false，that I suppose a man never lived whose word was less to be relied upon.
