Then Sir Lancelot fared far west through the wastelands, and came to the battlefield; and there he wept sorely to see the long lines of dead. Many were the dead knights of the Round Table whom he found unburied, and these with his own hands he laid in the grave, and he procured a priest to say prayers over them. Further he went beside the shores of the Endless Waters, until one day he found a black barge, and stepping therein he was taken without sail or oars far over the wide sea, until the twilight. Then, raising his sorrowing eyes, he was aware of a fair green island with a valley between two sweet hills, and there was a chapel, and all about it were trees all laden with blossoms. A little bell began to ring just as the barge lightly touched the 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.