rs, "but she was past listening to reason.
Is this maiden, who is so busy about you, she whom they call the lily of
Astolat?"

"She it is," said Lancelot. "I cannot by any means put her from me."

"Why should you?" asked Bors. "She is a beautiful and tender-hearted
damsel. Would to God, fair cousin, you could love her, for I see well,
by her gentle and close care of you, that she loves you devoutedly."

"That I am sorry for," said Lancelot.

"She will not be the first that has loved you in vain," said Bors; "the
more the pity."

Many other things they talked of, and Lancelot found such comfort in the
presence of Sir Bors that in a few days he showed great signs of
improvement. Then Bors told him of another tournament that King Arthur
had ordered, to be held at Camelot on All-hallowmas day, between his
party and that of the king of North Wales.

This filled Lancelot with an earnest desire to grow strong, and during
the following month, under the kind care of his cousin, and the gentle
ministrations of Elaine, he improved greatly in health. For Elaine
waited upon him with loving diligence night and day, and never was child
or wife more gentle and heedful to father or husband than this fair maid
of Astolat to the wounded knight.

At length came a day when Lancelot felt so much stronger, through the
healing influence of a bath of herbs which the hermit had gathered in
the woods, that he determined to try if he could wear his armor and sit
in his saddle. He thereupon armed and had his horse brought out.
Mounting the mettled charger, in the high spirit of new health he
spurred it to full speed.

But the courser's long rest in the stable had made it fresh and fierce,
and on feeling the spurs it leaped forward so violently that Lancelot's
wound burst open in the strain, and the blood gushed out again.

"Bors! Lavaine! help!" he feebly cried. "I am come to my end."

As he spoke he fell from his horse to the earth, and lay there like a
corpse.

The two knights hurried up, full of fearful concern, and when Elaine,
who had heard the pitiful call, came flying to the spot, she threw
herself on the prostrate form, weeping like one beside herself with
grief, and kissing the insensible knight as if she hoped thus to recall
him to life.

"Traitors you are!" she cried wildly to her brother and Sir Bors. "Why
did you let him leave his bed? I hold you guilty of his death."

At this moment the hermit Baldwin appeared. When he