So I bided with him, and for a time all went well, for we heard nought of Tregoz in any way, while another of his friends was taken and imprisoned in some western fortress of Gerent's.

Nor were there any more attacks made on Owen, so that after a little while we went about, hunting and hawking, in all freedom, for danger seemed to have passed with the taking of Dunwal as hostage.
Then one day a guard from the gate brought me a folded paper, on which my name was written in a fair hand, saying that it had been left for me by a swineherd from the hill, who said that it was from some mass priest whom I knew.

The guard had let the man go away, deeming that, of course, there was no need to keep him.

Nor had they asked who the priest might be, as it was said that I knew him.
I took the letter idly and went to my stables with it in my hand, and opened and read it as I walked.
"To Oswald, son of Owen .-- It is not good to sleep in the moonlight." That was all it said, and there was no name at the end of it.

I thought it foolish enough, for every one knows that the cold white light of the moon is held to be harmful for sleepers in the open air.