e
shore, and stepping therefrom, Sir Lancelot went into the chapel, and
heard mass. Afterwards a bishop came unto him where he kneeled, and a
hermit, and the latter seized his hand; and when he looked up Sir
Lancelot knew it for Sir Bedevere. Neither could speak for the great
tears that rolled down their grim faces, but Sir Bedevere drew him
forth and led him to where a great white marble slab was lying, freshly
cut, in the midmost part of the chapel.

Thereon Sir Lancelot saw the words, cut deep and wide, in black
letters:

HIC JACET

ARTHURUS REX

QUONDAM REX QUE FUTURUS

Then did Sir Lancelot's heart almost burst with sorrow; and when he had
finished praying and weeping, he kneeled unto the bishop and prayed him
to shrive him and assoil him. Afterwards he besought him that he might
live with him, and the holy man granted his request, and there ever
after did Sir Lancelot, putting off all the fame and glory which he had
gotten in the world, pass all his days and nights, serving God with
prayers and fastings and much abstinence.

When, within a year, Queen Gwenevere died in her cell at Amesbury, Sir
Lancelot, having been advised in a dream of her death, braved the bands
of lawless men that now ravaged the fair land of Britain, and brought
her body to the isle of Glastonbury. He laid it solemnly beside the
body of her dear lord Arthur, and thereafter he endured greater
penance.

'For,' said he, 'by my stiffnecked pride did all this evil come. If I
had gone straightway to my dear lord, and cast myself upon his love and
justice, my lady the queen would not have been led to the stake, and I
should not unwittingly have slain young Gareth. I am the causer of all
the ruin and the sorrow that hath come upon this land, and never while
I live may I forgive me.'

Thus evermore he prayed and mourned, day and night, but sometimes he
slumbered a broken sleep. He ate but little, and neither the bishop nor
Sir Bedevere could make him take comfort. And if you would know the
time and place where Lancelot was happiest, it was when he was lying on
the tomb of King Arthur and Queen Gwenevere.

At last, on a sweet morn in June, they found him lying there, stark
dead, but with a gentle smile upon his wasted face. And when they had
made the mass of requiem, they laid him in the tomb at the feet of the
king and the queen, and on the slab that covered him they caused these
words to be graven: