"I trust not," Lancelot replied, "for my sorrow is too deep ever to cease. When I remember how greatly I am to blame for the death of this noble King Arthur and Queen Guenever, my heart sinks within me, and I feel that I shall never know a moment's joy again."
Thereafter he sickened and pined away, for the bishop nor any of his fellows could make him eat nor drink but very little, but day and night he prayed, and wasted away, and ever lay grovelling on the tomb of the queen.
So, within six weeks afterwards, Lancelot fell sick and lay in his bed. Then he sent for the bishop and all his fellows, and said with sad voice: "Sir Bishop, I pray you give me all the rites that belong to a Christian man, for my end is at hand."
"This is but heaviness of your blood," replied the bishop. "You shall be well amended, I hope, through God's grace, by to-morrow morning."
"In heaven, mayhap, but not on earth," said Lancelot. "So give me the rites of the church, and after my death, I beg you to take my body to Joyous Gard, for there I have vowed that I would be buried."
When they had heard this, and saw that he was indeed near his end, there was such weeping and wringing of hands among his fellows that they could hardly help the bishop in the holy offices of the church. But that night, after the midnight hour, as the bishop lay asleep, he fell into such a hearty laugh of joy that they all came to him in haste, and asked him what ailed him.
"Why did you wake me?" he cried. "I was never in my life so happy and merry."
"Wherefore?" asked Sir Bors.
"Truly, here was Sir Lancelot with me, with more angels than I ever saw men together; and I saw the angels bear him to heaven, and the gates of heaven opened to him."
"This is but the vexation of a dream," said Sir Bors. "Lancelot may yet mend."