“Ah,” said Sir Lancelot, smiling, as he rode away from the four knights, “heaven give joy to him who made this spear, for never held I better in my hand.”

But the four knights said to each other, “Truly one spear hath felled us all.”

“I dare lay my life,” said Sir Gawain, “it is Sir Lancelot.  I know him by his riding.”

So they all departed for the court.

And as Sir Lancelot rode still in the forest, he saw a black bloodhound, running with its head towards the ground, as if it tracked a deer.  And following after it, he came to a great pool of blood.  But the hound, ever and anon looking behind, ran through a great marsh, and over a bridge, towards an old manor house.  So Sir Lancelot followed, and went into the hall, and saw a dead knight lying there, whose wounds the hound licked.  And a lady stood behind him, weeping and wringing her hands, who cried, “O knight! too great is the sorrow which thou hast brought me!”

“Why say ye so?” replied Sir Lancelot; “for I never harmed this knight, and am full sorely grieved to see thy sorrow.”

“Nay, sir,” said the lady, “I see it is not thou hast slain my husband, for he that truly did that deed is deeply wounded, and shall never more recover.”

“What is thy husband’s name?” said Sir Lancelot.

“His name,” she answered, “was Sir Gilbert—­one of the best knights in all the world; but I know not his name who hath slain him.”

“God send thee comfort,” said Sir Lancelot, and departed again into the forest.

And as he rode, he met with a damsel who knew him, who cried out, “Well found, my lord!  I pray ye of your knighthood help my brother, who is sore wounded and ceases not to bleed, for he fought this day with Sir Gilbert, and slew him, but was himself well nigh slain.  And there is a sorceress, who dwelleth in a castle hard by, and she this day hath told me that my brother’s wound shall never be made whole until I find a knight to go into the Chapel Perilous, and bring from thence a sword and the bloody cloth in which the wounded knight was wrapped.”

“This is a marvellous thing!” said Sir Lancelot; “but what is your brother’s name?”

“His name, sir,” she replied, “is Sir Meliot de Logres.”

“He is a Fellow of the Round Table,” said Sir Lancelot, “and truly will I do my best to help him.”

“Then, sir,” said she, “follow this way, and it will bring ye to the Chapel Perilous.  I will abide here till God send ye hither again; for if ye speed not, there is no living knight who may achieve that adventure.”