In their travels together, King Arthur and the Boss come upon a quarantined hut whose inhabitants are dying of a very contagious disease. Arthur brings the daughter of the household downstairs to be with her mother in their last moments. Even the cynical know-it-all Morgan - who constantly mocks and belittles kingship, honor, and heroism - is awed by this compassionate and heroic act.
He came forward into the light; upon his breast lay a slender girl of fifteen. She was but half conscious; she was dying of smallpox. Here was heroism at its last and loftiest possibility, its utmost summit; this was challenging death in the open field unarmed, with all the odds against the challenger... yet the king’s bearing was as serenely brave as it had always been in those cheaper contests where knight meets knight in equal fight and clothed in protecting steel. He was great now; sublimely great. The rude statues of his ancestors in his palace should have an addition—I would see to that; and it would not be a mailed king killing a giant or a dragon, like the rest, it would be a king in commoner’s garb bearing death in his arms that a peasant mother might look her last upon her child and be comforted.
Lancelot and the knights of Camelot pulling off The Cavalry. On bicycles.
Hank making a fool out of Merlin by blowing up his tower with gunpowder after allowing Merlin to try and stop him with his magic.