\"What's that?\" Lucy asked. My death, probably. I made the pies. ‘If it is that your men there are going to arrest us, then why do they not do so?’ ‘Left to myself, I’d let them,’ he replied grimly. ’ She shook her head sadly. People were not slaves to their gods as they are now, oppressed and unhappy, chained to their mortality and suffering so that they may one day enter an imaginary Heaven. Her new husband had paid for a cadre of escorts back to Mantua. Suddenly he understood what had happened. “He must never know,” she would whisper to herself, “he must never know.
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