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 of all the brave three hundred, noble or commoner, except us three, has risen above the water!” Fitz-Stephen, with a ghastly face, cried, “Woe! woe to me!” and sank 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 sank; and, of all the brilliant crowd, the poor butcher of Rouen alone was saved. In the morning some fishermen saw him floating in his sheepskin 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 falling 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.
—Charles Dickens.
THE ARAB AND HIS STEED
My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by,
With thy proudly arch’d and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye;
Fret not to roam the desert now, with all thy winged speed,
I may not mount on thee again—thou’rt sold, my Arab steed.