They saw there what they had been dreading to see: the King lying on the ground, and the two frightened grooms coming up, one dismounted and in an embarrassment to know what to do with his horse, the other giving doleful exclamations and cries for help.
William had raised himself on one elbow, and was holding a handkerchief to his mouth.
Buckhurst and Prior rushed up to him.
"Are you hurt, sire?" cried my lord.
The King removed the handkerchief from his lips; it was scarlet with blood.
"No," he answered. "The brute threw me over that molehill—the first time, my lord, I have been thrown——"
He put his hand to the shoulder on which he had fallen.
"Something broken, I think," he said, in a fainter voice. "They were right—I overestimated my skill—I have not the seat—I—once—had."
My lord endeavoured to raise him, tenderly enough; but at the attempt to move the King's face went of an ashy colour, and he fainted with pain.
"This is the end," murmured my lord. "Take him up, Mr. Prior—dear God, I think this is the end."