The only thing that seemed likely thus was that the good priest who wrote had left the palace before he had remembered to tell me how he had fared in that room once, and so sent back word.

There were many priests backward and forward here, as at Glastonbury with Ina.

Then it seemed plain that this was the meaning of the whole thing, and so I would hang a cloak over the window by and by.
And, of course, having settled the question in my own mind, I forgot to do that, and was like to have paid dearly for forgetting.
Two nights afterward, when the moon was at the full, I woke from sleep suddenly with the surety that I heard my name called softly.
I was wide awake in a moment, and found the room bright with moonlight that did indeed lie in a broad square right across my chest on the furs that covered me.

I glanced across to Owen, but he was asleep, as there was full light enough to see, and then I wondered why I seemed to have heard that call.

In a few moments I knew that, and also that the voice I heard was the one that had come to me in sore danger before.
Idly and almost sleeping again I watched the light, to see if indeed it was going to cross my face, and then a sudden shadow flitted across it, and with a hiss and flick of feathers a long arrow fled through the window and stuck in the plaster of the wall not an inch above my chest, furrowing the fur of the white bearskin over me, so close was it.
In a moment I was on the floor, with a call to Owen, and it was well that I had the sense to swing myself clear from the light and leap from the head of the bed, for even as my feet touched the floor a second arrow came and struck fairly in the very place where I had been, and stood quivering in the bedding.
Then was a yell from outside, and before Owen could stay me I looked through the window, recklessly enough maybe, but with a feeling that no more arrows would come now that the archer was disturbed.