Instruments of Darkness (collection)/Juliet and Mercutio

mysterious disappearance of Juliet Capulet's body from the tomb of her ancestors was an event which gave rise to endless discussion at the time, and to many subsequent legends. Some people said that the corpse had been stolen by the Montagues for the mere secret glory of knowing that a member of the greatest family in Verona was buried in a Montague tomb. Juliet's nurse always asserted that angels had come for her darling, as they had for the blessed Saint Catherine, and had carried her straight to heaven. Some people believed that the ghost of Tybalt had been seen leaving the tomb with his phantom bride, and this legend was later enriched with a story that the ghost had left the dead body of Romeo behind him. This was quite untrue. As a matter of fact Romeo never returned to Verona after he had once left it.

The version which has come down to us in Shakespeare's play—the story that Juliet's body did not disappear at all but was found lying beside that of her youthful husband—is based on a statement made by Friar Laurence to his official superiors. The poor old man had been criticized before this on account of the sympathy he showed to all young people in distress, and now he was persecuted with relentless anger by old Capulet for having dared to perform a wedding ceremony for so young a girl as Juliet without the consent of her father. The extremely unlikely story which he tells, had as he says, no witness but the nurse, and gained no credence at all among his contemporaries, although the art of Shakespeare has made it immortal.

The true facts, traces of which may be read between the lines of the poet's romantic version, were known only to one person who remained in Verona—the fair Rosaline. They are as follows:

When Juliet returned from her wedding in the Friar's cell, she found herself unable to settle down to any of her usual occupations. She was afraid to think of what she had done—not that she regretted it, but the first great wave of emotion had subsided, and in cool blood she trembled to think that she was now the wife of a man whom twenty-four hours ago she had never seen.

Therefore she wandered out of her own suite of rooms which, as we know, looked on the orchard, and went to her mother's apartments. She could not bear her nurse's steady flow of talk about the joys of the married state, and she wished to satisfy herself that her early visit to the confessional that morning had not roused her parents' suspicions.

Then, too, Lady Capulet's room looked out on the great square of Verona where something was always happening, and Juliet promised herself the amusement of peeping from behind the shutters. Possibly Romeo himself would pass through the square.

She found that both her parents were out, but waiting in her mother's room was her fair cousin Rosaline. The two girls had never been exactly intimate. Rosaline was three years older than Juliet—she had a regular profile, a high white forehead, a scarlet though somewhat narrow mouth, and a bearing so stately and correct that the Capulets were always glad that little Juliet—such a passionate, impulsive child—should be thrown into her cousin's society.

Rosaline had come to explain why she had not put in an appearance at the Capulet's supper party the evening before. She knew her absence would have angered her uncle, and though she was too calm and haughty to fear any one, her uncle's well-known irascibility was something she tried never to rouse.

She began by saying that she heard it had been a delightful entertainment. Juliet turned her head away to hide the smile which irresistibly curled her lips. She admitted that she had enjoyed it, and then added:

“But thou, sweet coz, didst let thyself be missed.”

“My duty,” answered Rosaline, “not my will kept me at home.” And she went on to explain how she had of late been importuned by a young gallant of Verona, with attentions which were most unwelcome to her: “Not three nights since, he did o'er perch the walls about my orchard, and except my hound bayed at him like a Modern Cerberus, he might have smirched that jewel—my fair name.”

Juliet dropped her eyes. Sheltered as she was by her parents, she had never heard a whisper of Romeo's devotion to her cousin, although it was the gossip of all Verona. She had not the faintest suspicion that it was of her own husband Rosaline was speaking. Her only thought was that she was grateful that her father had always had a prejudice against keeping dogs in their orchard.

Rosaline meantime went placidly on with her explanation. She had been told that this impetuous gallant had got wind of the fact that she was bidden to her uncle's to supper and he actually intended—though himself uninvited—to be present, masked and accompanied by some of his wild young friends. Rosaline was afraid that if she appeared at the party she might be involved in a scandal, perhaps even in bloodshed. She had thought it more prudent to stay at home, and she felt confident that her uncle would approve of her discretion.

Juliet was flattered and touched by this confidence. It suddenly occurred to her that Rosaline would be the best advocate—the very best person in the world to break the news of her rash wedding. She decided to tell her cousin everything, and as a preliminary she began to question her as to her opinion of all the likely young men of Verona, meaning, when at length Romeo's name came up for comment—favorable comment of course—to astonish her cousin by naming him as her husband.

Everything began well. They discussed Benvolio, the County Anselme, and Lucio. Juliet inquired: “What think'st thou of the County Paris, coz?”

Now Rosaline thought extremely well of Paris. He was not only elegant and handsome with interesting green eyes, but he was rich and bore a great name. It had always seemed to her that she herself would have made an excellent countess, and she often thought that if she had had a powerful, aggressive parent like her Uncle Capulet, she would have been selected by the Count, who had more than once praised her cold, correct beauty. But, alas, she was an orphan, and she knew that her Uncle Capulet was already in negotiation with the County over the hand of Juliet. Knowing this, she was careful to praise Paris to Juliet—a noble gentleman—the mold of fashion. But Juliet was wondering whether she dared to speak Romeo's name next? No, she thought, there was one other conspicuous figure in Verona—the young Mercutio, a connection of the prince. She would ask about him first?

The blinds were lowered, but as the girls talked they had approached the window and between the cracks they stared down into the square. It was almost deserted, but just as Juliet had opened her mouth to say, “What think'st thou of Mercutio, dearest coz?” who should come stepping round the corner but the man himself, talking to his friend Benvolio.

A little smile curved Rosaline's somewhat thin lips. “Aye,” she said, and her voice took on a softer tone, “there's a gallant spirit—there's a man. He hath a tear for pity and a hand open as day for melting charity, yet doth in wars more than his captain does, becomes his captain's captain—risks his life to throw away the dearest thing he hath, as 'twere a careless trifle, and withal a wit so merry that a woman's heart could scarce resist the magic of his tongue.”

Juliet stared. She had never before heard her cousin speak with such enthusiasm of any man. Like all brides Juliet was a matchmaker. Besides she knew that Mercutio was her Romeo's best friend. What could be more delightful than a marriage between Mercutio and her cousin. With this in mind she peered out at him more attentively. There was no doubt he was extremely attractive to look at. He had not the dark, sullen beauty of Romeo, but he had a grace, an ease, a decision of gesture, and a brilliant intelligence of eye, a subtle, curving, witty mouth—a man, she thought, of whose society one could never grow weary; she hoped the thought was not disloyal.

Benvolio, it appeared, was remonstrating with Mercutio, for as the two came within earshot, the girls heard Mercutio answer: “Thou! Why thou wilt quarrel with a man for cracking nuts having no other reason but because thou hast hazel eyes. Why,” cried Mercutio, clapping his friend on the shoulder, “thou hast quarreled with a man for coughing in the street because he hath wakened thy dog that hath lain asleep in the sun.”

The two, still talking, came to a standstill, almost immediately below the window, and as they stood, the watchers above perceived that a new figure had entered the square—their cousin Tybalt.

Tybalt was not a favorite with either of the girls. He had made their childhood hideous to them as an older boy can; and though as they grew up he had tried to wipe out this impression he had never succeeded. They both knew him for a bully.

He appeared now at his very worst. The night before he had recognized Romeo at his uncle's supper, and the sight of any friend of the Montague family was more than usually irritating to him. Swaggering and laying his hand on his sword, he advanced toward Mercutio now, while Mercutio, chatting to Benvolio, appeared absolutely unaware of his existence.

Raising his voice in a loud and provocative tone, Tybalt said: “Gentlemen, good den: a word with one of you.”

Mercutio turned his head over his shoulder to look at the speaker—to look him over slowly from head to foot. Then he said with a smile: “And but one word with one of us? Couple it with something,” and he added almost pleadingly, 'make it a word and a blow.”

The girls had never heard their cousin answered like this (for in the family every one was very civil to him), and it need hardly be said they were delighted. But Rosaline gave a low murmur of anxiety as she heard Tybalt's reply: “You shall find me apt enough to that, sir, an you will give me occasion.”

Mercutio, still over his shoulder, and still with the same smile asked softly: “Could you not take some occasion, without giving?”

Evidently Tybalt accepted this challenge in the spirit it was meant, for he took a step toward Mercutio, and said something which both girls, straining their ears, could not hear, although they both thought they caught the name of Romeo.

Benvolio now interrupted, urging his friend to withdraw to a more private place. Here, he said, all eyes gazed on them. But Mercutio shook off his hand.

“Men's eyes,” he said, “were made to look, and let them gaze. I will not budge for no man's pleasure, I.” At that very instant who should come sauntering round the corner but Romeo himself, in such a revery that he might have passed the group without seeing either friend or foe, had not Tybalt, abandoning his former antagonist, leaped forward crying in loud tones in Romeo's face that he was a villain.

Romeo looked utterly surprised by this sudden attack; and then with a sad, mild smile he shook his head, and murmuring something about having reason to love Tybalt, would have passed on. Tybalt, however, who had never been able to see the difference between civility and cowardice, blocked his path, and raising his voice cried: “Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries that thou hast done me; therefore turn and draw.”

Romeo's soft low voice was inaudible, but evidently from Tybalt's increased arrogance of manner, and from the expression of disgust on the faces of Mercutio and Benvolio, he again refused the quarrel.

Now, of course, Juliet ought to have admired this gentleness of spirit, both girls should have admired it, for each believed that it was Tybalt's cousinship to herself that was protecting him. But this was not a pacific age, and Tybalt was not beloved by either. In fact, they were both aware that a triumph like this would render him insufferable, and they desired nothing more than to see his proud spirit taken down.

Nevertheless, Juliet's loyalty was such that when she heard Rosaline murmur: “Bold where he should be meek is Romeo, and temperate where'er he should be bold,” she sprang to his defense. She said quickly: “Thou canst not know the reasons that he hath for loving Tybalt.”

Rosaline could not help smiling at this, thinking that she knew better than any one why it was Romeo did not wish to run the risk of a quarrel with her cousin. An explanation between the two girls must certainly have followed, had not events in the square begun to move with a rapidity that made conversation impossible.

Mercutio, who had hardly been able to restrain himself while Romeo so meekly protested his love for the Capulets, now snatched his sword from its sheath, and succeeded in making the quarrel his own.

In an instant the two young men—the two best swordsmen in Verona though of different schools—were hard at it, while Romeo, wringing his hands and protesting, hovered ineffectually on the outskirts.

“Gentlemen,” he kept saying, “for shame, forbear this outrage! Tybalt, Mercutio, the prince expressly hath forbidden bandying in Verona streets. Hold, Tybalt! Good Mercutio!”

At length, finding that they paid no attention to him whatsoever, Romeo drew his own sword and, calling on Benvolio to help him, he attempted to come between the two combatants. But unhappily the rôle of him who makes peace has always lacked the dash and conviction of those who make war; and Romeo now intervened in so clumsy a fashion that he hampered Mercutio, while leaving Tybalt free, with the result that Tybalt contrived to strike his opponent under Romeo's arm.

At this sight Rosaline's emotion expressed itself in language quite at variance with her usual serenity, and even Juliet was abliged [sic] to confess that Romeo did not seem as romantic in action as he had when he was making love in a moonlit orchard.

Even after Mercutio had staggered back, and Tybalt was at liberty, Romeo still seemed incapable of action. It was Mercutio himself who sent his page for a surgeon, while Romeo stood by, unable to think of anything more appropriate than to urge courage upon one who had not so far shown himself deficient in it.

“Courage, man,” Romeo kept saying, “the hurt can not be much.”

Suffering as he was, Mercutio was amused at this speech. “No,” he replied, “'tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door; but 'tis enough, 'twill serve; ask for me to-morrow and you will find me a grave man.” And he went on half jesting, half cursing, while Romeo protested that he had thought all for the best.

Mercutio did not even answer him, but turning to Benvolio asked to be helped into the nearest house.

Now the nearest house was the Capulets', and here, without hesitation, Benvolio half carried his wounded friend. The exertion was too much for Mercutio, and at the foot of the great stairway he fell into so death-like a swoon that Benvolio, without waiting for the arrival of the surgeon, rushed back to the square to announce to Romeo the death of their gallant friend. The two girls, however, with their more experienced feminine attitude to illness, saw at once that he had only fainted. They had hurried down to make what arrangements they could for his comfort. The surgeon arrived almost immediately, and after examining the wound announced that it was not fatal—not even serious if the bleeding did not break out again. The patient must not be moved until the next day.

The girls looked at each other. Was it possible to ask old Capulet to shelter an adherent of the hated Montague? Juliet was of the opinion that it was; Rosaline seemed less convinced.

Doubt was soon put an end to by the entrance of Juliet's nurse—babbling though breathless. The girls had seen nothing of the events in the square since the wounding of Mercutio. The nurse brought them word of a series of tragedies. Romeo, moved by the supposed death of his friend, had drawn his sword and rushed into the fight with an almost maniacal fury. Tybalt had fallen, Romeo had fled, the prince had arrived upon the scene and had pronounced a sentence of exile upon Romeo—death if he were ever again to be found in Verona.

“Where is my noble father?” Juliet asked.

Pointing across the square the nurse answered: “Here he comes, with angry stride and eyes that vengeance flash.”

And now Juliet saw in an instant that Mercutio's life was in greater danger from her father's anger than it had ever been from Tybalt's sword. Tybalt had always been a great favorite with old Capulet—indeed there was something similar in their characters. To find that Tybalt's murderer still lived would be maddening to the man, but to find him sheltered in his house, tended by his own daughter, might well rouse him to such a gust of fury as would lead him to plunge his dagger into the wounded man's heart. Certainly he would turn him out into the streets to die. Juliet reflected that he was her husband's dearest friend, wounded in Romeo's quarrel. She gave rapid orders that he should be carried to her own apartments.

By the time her father and mother entered the great hall, all traces of Mercutio's presence had disappeared, the attendants had gone, and the Capulets saw only their daughter and niece standing hand in hand on the great staircase, waiting in terrible agitation to hear the details of their cousin's death.

Old Capulet stormed in, sparing no one and observing nothing, but Lady Capulet, who was a gentle woman, although completely under the domination of her violent lord, noticed how pale and agitated Juliet seemed, and she readily yielded to the prayer of both girls that Rosaline might be allowed to stay the night in her cousin's chamber. Thither, after a few minutes, the two girls withdrew, and were not seen again that day.

They found that Juliet's nurse had already made Mercutio comfortable. She had laid him in a high, canopied bed the curtains of which could be dropped if it became necessary to conceal the occupant, and had given him the soothing draught and cooling drink left by the surgeon.

There is nothing perhaps which women admire more than cheerful courage under physical suffering, and when that courage is heightened by gayety and wit, it becomes irresistible. Juliet had never seen any man suffer except her father, who was subject to terrible attacks of gout, and old Capulet was a very bad patient indeed. He moaned aloud, complained unceasingly, regarded himself as the victim of a hostile fate.

The girl supposed that all men were like this when stretched upon a bed of pain, and so Mercutio now seemed to her almost godlike. Nor was her admiration for him lessened by the fact that he could not conceal—indeed he made no effort to do so—that he had fallen madly in love with her from the first second when, recovering from his swoon, he had found her lovely anxious face bending above him. It was a common saying in Verona that if a thing could be said, Mercutio could say it, and he proved his ability now by conveying to the girl in every phrase he uttered, that he who had always laughed at love, jested at his friends' scars, was now stabbed with a black eye, shot through the ear with a soft voice, and the very pin of his heart cleft with the blind bow-boy's shaft.

It must be remembered that he had not the least idea he was speaking to his friend's wife. Romeo had not confided his new passion to Mercutio—had been perhaps ashamed to do so. For this was only Monday afternoon, and no later than Sunday—the day before—Romeo had been alarming Mercutio with threats of suicide if Rosaline continued obdurate. It had been for Rosaline's sake that he had induced Mercutio to go with him masked to the Capulet supper party, and after he had stolen away from his friends in order to climb the orchard wall, he had not seen Mercutio again until they had met so tragically in the square.

Therefore it was natural enough that Mercutio, a loyal friend, should seize on his present situation as an excellent opportunity of helping Romeo's suit. He whispered to Juliet, supposing that she must be in her cousin's confidence since all Verona knew of Romeo's passion, that she would be doing the kindest deed that any saint ever performed if she could soften the heart of Rosaline to poor Romeo's importunities.

This intelligence, which should have broken Juliet's heart, for some reason was not as terrible as might have been supposed. Of course it was a shock. She exclaimed, “Think you he loves my cousin, Rosaline?”

Mercutio misunderstood the question; it seemed to him she was merely uncertain as to the depth and sincerity of Romeo's feeling, and he at once launched into a defense of his friend's emotion. “He dotes upon her,” he replied. 'She so torments him he will sure run mad. Laura to his lady was but a kitchen wench: Dido, a dowdy; Cleopatra, a gypsy; Thisbe”

And he would have gone on in this vein trying to persuade her of a fact of which she already felt thoroughly convinced, but she suddenly turned from him and, running across the room to where Rosaline was calmly rolling a bandage she demanded—and heard—the whole truth.

Alas, poor Romeo. He was now in the most desperate situation in which a man can be during his bodily absence—he was the subject of complete confidence between two women to whom he had made violent love. It seems almost incredible that he should not have protected himself in any way from a situation which was so likely to arise. A word would have done it. Juliet was of a trusting nature, and would have believed any story that he had told her. He need only to have hinted in the orchard under the moon that he had lately freed himself from an evil spell. He might even have traced some fancied resemblance between the two cousins and have explained that he had loved the shadow before he had seen the reality. But certainly it was the grossest stupidity to allow Juliet to hear from any one but himself that within twenty-four hours he had been passionately importuning another woman with protestations of his undying love.

Unfortunately for Romeo it was not jealousy that Juliet felt, but something more like contempt. She could not help being influenced by Rosaline's judgment of him as a silly, emotional boy, who made scenes in public places, and rolled weeping on the ground when he failed to get what he wanted. She soon discovered too that many of the beautiful phrases which had done so much to win her, had already done duty in his wooing of her cousin. He had frequently longed to be a glove on Rosaline's hand, and the simile about love going to love like a schoolboy away from school was the sextette of a sonnet thrown in, the week before, at Rosaline's window.

The revulsion of Juliet's feelings were now in proportion to their warmth and sincerity. The haste and recklessness of her own actions, which had seemed brave and romantic to her when the man involved was an honest lover, now appeared to her the ludicrous mistake of a green girl. She was bitterly ashamed to be tied forever to a man whose habit was to o'erperch any convenient orchard wall—to sigh to any pretty woman. She remembered with shame how much of the courtship had been done by her. Probably Romeo had never had any idea of marrying her—most likely he expected all women to be as obdurate as Rosaline. The whole incident was ridiculous, and yet irretrievable. Her life was ruined.

Rosaline, older and cooler, saw all the practical dangers of the girl's position. The marriage could be annulled, but the fact that it had ever existed would make the match with the County Paris impossible, for Paris was more than usually conventional in his ideas about women. It was largely on account of Juliet's youth and innocence and the extremely sheltered way in which she had been brought up that he had selected her as his bride. The rage of old Capulet at seeing his plans go wrong would be terrible. Rosaline feared that her uncle's anger might take a cruel form. Juliet might find herself imprisoned—or turned into the street.

And so it happened that when Romeo ascended his ladder of ropes full of the prettiest things to say about nightingales and pale reflexes of Cynthia's brow, he found, not the tender girl from whom he had parted in the Friar's cell that morning, but a cold, aloof woman, who left all explanations to his former admiration, Rosaline. Now Rosaline was the last person Romeo wanted to see, but there she was, as he leaped gracefully through the window, and she began at once to reproach him for his selfish recklessness in luring her little cousin into a secret marriage before the child's fourteenth birthday—much too young to know her own mind. Romeo began a passionate protest that he knew his mind—that his love was eternal, but he saw the girls exchange a cool smile at this, and Rosaline felt obliged to remind him that on last Saturday he had threatened to take his life if she continued obdurate. They appealed to Mercutio to know if this was not true.

It would be unjust to doubt that Romeo was glad to find that Mercutio was alive—that the thrust for which he must have felt responsible had not been fatal, but it is hard to be grateful for the presence of a hostile witness, and Romeo knew that Mercutio believed sincerely that Rosaline was the object of his passion. Besides, it was not at all agreeable to the young husband to observe that, while Juliet left explanations and reproaches to Rosaline, she was completely absorbed in care for the wounded man's health, smoothing his pillow and holding cooling draughts to his lips. Fortunately he could not hear what it was that she was murmuring into Mercutio's ear, for it was neither more nor less than an apologetic explanation of her own childish folly in having paid any attention to the protestations of so inconstant a wooer as Romeo.

Mercutio, under his wit and gayety, possessed an excellent understanding of the human heart. Though it was a bitter shock to him to learn that Juliet had gone through a wedding ceremony with a man of whom she knew so little, he was able to understand and forgive. He assured her that the marriage could be readily annulled, if she wished it.

“Oh, can you doubt I wish it,” Juliet replied, not observing that Romeo had stolen to her side, until, overhearing these cruel words, he burst into a torrent of tears, flung himself upon the floor, and began to tear his hair.

This painful and somewhat noisy scene was put an end to by the nurse, who came running into the room crying: “Your lady mother is coming to your chamber. The day is broke, be wary, look about.”

An extraordinarily rapid transformation scene took place. The curtains were drawn across the bed on which Mercutio lay; Romeo, still feebly protesting, was forced down his ladder of ropes. When Lady Capulet entered, she found the two girls standing close to the open window, through which the first pale streaks of dawn had begun to filter.

Lady Capulet was very much surprised to see her daughter up so early. “Why, how now, Juliet?” she exclaimed.

She was distressed at this evidence that the child had not slept. Shakespeare has done no more than justice to the anxiety which both parents felt for Juliet's happiness. They had talked all the afternoon about the change that had taken place in her—a change which they naturally attributed to her grief at her cousin's death. They believed that they were only doing their duty in hurrying forward the arrangements for the marriage with Paris which had already been agreed upon. Lady Capulet was sincere when she said to her daughter:

“But now I'll tell thee joyful tidings, girl.”

“And joy comes well in such needy time,” answered Juliet, with rather a pale smile.

Her mother wasted little time in preliminaries: “Marry, my child, early next Thursday morn, the gallant young and noble gentleman, the County Paris, at Saint Peter's Church, shall happily make thee there a joyful bride.”

A faint exclamation seemed to issue from the canopied bed but fortunately Lady Capulet did not notice it, for Juliet springing to her feet cried out:

“Now by Saint Peter's Church and Peter too, he shall not make me there a joyful bride. I wonder at this haste, that I must wed, ere he that should be husband comes to woo.” And she went on protesting in this determined and rebellious spirit, until her mother stopped her by saying that her father was coming and she could say it all to him.

Old Capulet entered, suave and paternal, expecting the full measure of praise for his kindness. “How now, Wife,” he said, beaming about him. “Have you delivered to her our decree?”

“Aye, sir,” said Lady Capulet, who was always being blamed by her husband for their daughter's faults and had no idea now of assuming any responsibility for the girl's insane obstinacy. “Aye, sir, but she will none, she gives you thanks.”

Capulet could not believe his ears. “Soft,” he replied, “take me with you, take me with you, Wife. How! will she none? Doth she not give us thanks? Is she not proud? Doth she not count her blest, unworthy as she is, that we have wrought so worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom?”

Afraid as she was of her father, and with reason, Juliet attempted to answer him. “Not proud you have, but thankful that you have: proud I could never be of what I hate; but thankful even for hate that is meant love.”

At this old Capulet's rage broke loose. We may imagine the feelings of a high-spirited man like Mercutio at hearing the girl he loved addressed as “mistress minion, proud me no prouds, but fettle your fine joints 'gainst Thursday next to go with Paris to St. Peter's Church, or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither. Out, you green-sickness carrion! out, you baggage! You tallow face!”

When Juliet attempted to plead with him he told her not to answer, that his fingers itched. The nurse, more courageous than Lady Capulet, told him he was to blame to speak so to his child; and was called a mumbling fool for her pains. His final decree to the trembling girl was this: “An you be mine, I'll give you to my friend; an you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in the streets, for, by my soul, I'll ne'er acknowledge thee.”

With this he stalked out of the room soon followed by his wife.

As soon as they were gone, Mercutio threw back the curtains and took complete charge of the situation. It seemed to him that no one since the world began had ever been as ill treated as the poor girl weeping before him. For Juliet, heretofore so brave and decisive, had now broken down, and could do nothing but weep and declare that rather than marry Paris she would kill herself. Mercutio assured her she need do neither.

He and Rosaline together had just succeeded in comforting her a little, when Peter the page introduced the surgeon.

Mercutio's wound, it appeared, had progressed miraculously. The litter was waiting just outside the garden wall, and the sick man could be moved at once while it was so early that no one would be about.

Mercutio, who knew the surgeon of old—had indeed been served by him on many similar occasions—did not hesitate to confide their situation to him, and it was he—not the poor Friar Laurence at all—who had the idea of the sleeping potion, which, as luck would have it, he had with him at the time.

Juliet received it with thankful joy, and promised to obey his instructions exactly. She had indeed no fear that Mercutio would bungle the business as Romeo almost certainly would have done. She knew that if he said he would be there to comfort her when she came back to life in that grim and terrible vault that he would not fail to keep his word. They parted in the most complete confidence that they would soon meet never to part again.

Assisted throughout by the loyal friendship of Rosaline, she did exactly what they had decided upon. She gave her consent to her marriage with Paris in two days—she was obliged to stipulate for two days, so that Mercutio might be sufficiently recovered from his wound to bear a journey. As the play relates, on the morning of her wedding day she was discovered by her nurse apparently dead in her bed. Mercutio meantime had had an able locksmith provide him with a duplicate key to the Capulet tomb. He entered the gloomy vault some hours before Juliet's funeral cortege arrived there. When the cool of evening began to revive her, she woke to find her head pillowed on Mercutio's shoulder. A litter was waiting for them to take them to the sea, where a boat conveyed them to Venice. Here they lived in perfect happiness until their death, and a palace, which by some mistake is often called the house of Desdemona, was actually the home of Juliet and Mercutio.

Paris, who during the difficult days that followed the death of his young bride found Rosaline most helpful and sympathetic, soon made her an offer of marriage, which she, after due consideration, and very much urged thereto by her uncle, decided to accept. She filled the position of Countess of Paris with utmost grace and dignity during her husband's life, and after his death administered his great estate most sagaciously.

Romeo wisely enough never attempted to return to Verona. He decided to remain at Mantua, where after a few years he married a rich widow some years older than himself, whom he kept in continual subjection to his will by accounts of the passion of a nobly born young Veronese maiden who had killed herself for love of him.