So Sir Gawain lay healing of the grim wound which Sir Lancelot had given him, and there was peace between the two armies, when there came messengers from Britain bearing letters for King Arthur; and more evil news than they brought might not well be, for they told how Sir Modred had usurped his uncle’s realm. First, he had caused it to be noised abroad that King Arthur was slain in battle with Sir Lancelot and, since there be many ever ready to believe any idle rumor and eager for any change, it had been no hard task for Sir Modred to call the lords to a Parliament and persuade them to make him king. But the Queen could not be brought to believe that her lord was dead, so she took refuge in the Tower of London from Sir Modred’s violence, nor was she to be induced to leave her strong refuge for aught that Modred could promise or threaten. This was the news that came to Arthur as he lay encamped about Sir Lancelot’s castle of Benwick. Forthwith, he bade his host make ready to move and, when they had reached the coast they embarked and made sail to reach Britain with all possible speed. Sir Modred, on his part, had heard of their sailing and hasted to get together a great army. It was grievous to see how many a stout knight held by Modred, ay, even many whom Arthur himself had raised to honor and fortune; for it is the nature of men to be fickle. Thus it was that, when Arthur drew near to Dover, he found Modred with a mighty host waiting to oppose his landing. Then there was a great sea-fight, those of Modred’s party going out in boats, great and small, to board King Arthur’s ships and slay him and his men or ever they should come to land. Right valiantly, did King Arthur bear him, as was his wont, and boldly his followers fought in his cause, so that at last they drove off their enemies and landed at Dover in spite of Modred and his array. For that time Modred fled, and King Arthur bade those of his party bury the slain and tend the wounded. So as they passed from ship to ship, salving and binding the hurts of the men, they came at last upon Sir Gawain, where he lay at the bottom of a boat, wounded to the death, for he had received a great blow on the wound that Sir Lancelot had given him. They bore him to his tent and his uncle, the King, came to him, sorrowing beyond measure. “Methinks,” said the King, “my joy on earth is done; for never have I loved any men as I have loved you, my nephew, and Sir Lancelot. Sir Lancelot I have lost, and now I see you on your death-bed.” “My King,” said Sir Gawain, “my hour is come and I have got my death at Sir Lancelot’s hand; for I am smitten on the wound he gave me. And rightly am I served, for of my wilfulness and stubbornness comes this unhappy war. I pray you, my uncle, raise me in your arms and let me write to Sir Lancelot before I die.”