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Could an arrow, or the quarrel of a crossbow, not be sped between the bars, into my heart, even here in the pen? I lay back, frightened, holding the blanket about me. - (Dancer of Gor, Chapter 27, Sentence #134)

It was perhaps his intention to remind me, from time to time, particularly if I should grow too hopeful, that I had not been forgotten. But perhaps it was all my imagination! Perhaps he had changed his mind. Perhaps he had taken his way, by now, to Brundisium! Then I was again frightened. Could an arrow, or the quarrel of a crossbow, not be sped between the bars, into my heart, even here in the pen? I lay back, frightened, holding the blanket about me. Such a missile, of course, might be as easily launched from the brush at the side of a road, as I might be walking beside a tharlarion, my neck in a chain, running to a master's stirrup. But I wondered if such things would suffice for his vengeance. Perhaps they would be too distant, too abstract, for him. - (Dancer of Gor)