When night came, Lancelot told Bors, who dwelt with him, that he had a fancy to go and speak with the queen.
"Do not go to-night, I pray you," said Bors.
"Why not to-night?"
"I fear some plot of that rogue, Agravaine, who has it in his heart to work you ill. I have heard a whisper, and fear that the king's absence to-night is part of a plot, and that an ambush is laid to do you harm."
"Have no dread of that," said Lancelot. "I wish only some minutes' conversation with the queen, and will quickly return again."
"I should rather you would not go. I am in doubt that some evil may come of it."
"Why say you this nephew? Do you deem that I am a coward, or that the queen is my mistress, as the evil-tongued say? I go because she has sent for me, desiring to see me. Am I the man to deny her request because there are foul-mouthed slanderers abroad?"
"Go, then, since I see you will. God speed you, and send you back safe and sound."
Lancelot thereupon wrapped himself in his mantle, and taking his sword under his arm made his way to the castle, which was some distance from his residence. Here he sought and entered the queen's chamber, where she awaited him with her ladies.
But no sooner had he done so, and scarcely had he spoken a word to his royal lady, than Mordred, Agravaine, and their followers burst in tumult from the chamber in which they had been concealed, and loudly exclaimed,—