Launcelot struggles awake, once Jesus and the mystery knight are gone. Had he really seen Jesus? Had he dreamed that? Had the squire really been Jesus at all, or maybe some lesser saint or bodhisattva, empowered to declare the mystery knight was allowed to steal Launcelot’s things but not himself a direct emanation of the godhead? Launcelot really isn’t sure. He sits there for a while and tries to collect his thoughts.
“Sir Launcelot!” a voice booms out.
Launcelot looks around, can’t find the source of the voice. That’s either a good thing or a really bad thing, he figures.
“More harder than is the stone, and more bitter than is the wood, and more naked and barer than is the leaf of the fig tree, therefore go thou from hence and withdraw thee from this holy place!”
Bad thing. For the first time in all of Le Morte D’Arthur up to this point, Sir Launcelot starts to bawl and feel sorry for himself. He gets a good self-pity on, cursing that he was ever born, and how it really had been Jesus (or some close analogue) after all, and how he’d come so close to the Grail, only to lose it at the last minute.
Then he realizes that Jesus stole his horse and helmet and sword. And then he call[s] himself a very wretch, and most unhappy of all knights.
“Poor poor me,” he says to himself. “I’m all sinful, and wicked, and dishonored, and worldly. So worldly! I did all the most awesome things, had all the best strange adventures, slew evil knights and rescued maidens and sent prisoners off to Guenever as though they were bouquets of daisies. I should have been praying! All that time, I should have been praying.”
Hours and hours go by. Launcelot paces around, monologuing at great length about his miseries and how wretched he is. He’s hoping, I think, that Jesus will come back and forgive him and return his horse, but nothing doing.
So eventually he wanders off on foot, like a peasant.