'That me repenteth,' said Sir Lancelot, 'for he is a fellow of the Round Table, and for him will I do all in my power.'
Going to the table, he looked upon the ashen face of the wounded man, and it was Sir Meliot, even as the lady said.
'Now, sir,' said the lady, when Sir Lancelot had mounted his horse, 'do ye follow that hard way across the marsh, and it will lead ye by midnight to the Chapel Perilous, and may ye speed well.'
Right so, Sir Lancelot departed, and the sun was near its setting.
For some hours Sir Lancelot fared across the marsh, until it was deep night, save for the stars; then he came upon a broad road, grass-grown and banked high, where the night wind piped in the long grass. This he knew was a road which the great Roman necromancers had wrought, and he thought he had missed his way, for there was no other path.
As he stood marvelling, the figure of a man, tall and gaunt and but half clad, came down the broad road towards him, and cried in a hollow voice:
'For the love of charity, sir knight, give to a poor man who is outcast.'
Sir Lancelot pitied the sunken eyes of the poor man, and gave him alms.
'God give thee comfort, poor soul,' said the knight, 'and get thee a roof, for the night wind blows chill.'
'God bless thee, sir knight,' said the man, in awful tones, 'for courtesy and pity such as thine are rare. Whither goest thou this night?'