Bedevere got him from the boat, and
began to climb the hill. As he climbed he stood still for a space, and
hearkened. From above Bedevere might hear a noise of sore weeping, and
loud lamentation, and doleful sighs. The knight grew cold at the heart
root by reason of his exceeding fear, since he deemed to have come
upon the giant at his play. Presently the courage returned to his
breast, and drawing the sword from its sheath, he advanced stoutly up
the hill. Bedevere considered within himself that it were better for
a knight to die, rather than know himself a coward. He reproached
himself for his tearfulness, and in heart and hope desired only to
bring the adventure to a good end. His wish proved but vain. When
Bedevere won the summit of the mountain, there was no giant, but only
a flaming fire, and close by the fire a new-digged grave. The knight
drew near this fire, with the sword yet naked in his hand. Lying
beside the grave he found an old woman, with rent raiment and
streaming hair, lamenting her wretched case. She bewailed also the
fate of Helen, making great dole and sorrow, with many shrill cries.
When this piteous woman beheld Bedevere upon the mount, "Oh, wretched
man," she exclaimed, "what is thy name, and what misadventure leads
you here! Should the giant find thee in his haunt, this very day thy
life will end in shame and grief and hurt.
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