incarnation of that exquisite spring-time which had touched
and awakened all the leaves and buds in the sleepy old gardens around
Verona.

"Mercutio! who is that lady?"

"The daughter of old Capulet, by her stature."

"And he that dances with her?"

"Paris, a kinsman to Can Grande della Scala."

"Her lover?"

"One of them."

"She has others?"

"Enough to make a squadron; only the blind and aged are exempt."

Here the music ceased and the dancers dispersed. Hamlet followed the
lady with his eyes, and, seeing her left alone a moment, approached her.
She received him graciously, as a mask receives a mask, and the two
fell to talking, as people do who--have nothing to say to each other and
possess the art of saying it. Presently something in his voice struck
on her ear, a new note, an intonation sweet and strange, that made her
curious. Who was it? It could not be Valentine, nor Anselmo; he was too
tall for Signior Placentio, not stout enough for Lucio; it was not her
cousin Tybalt. Could it be that rash Montague who--Would he dare? Here,
on the very points of their swords? The stream of maskers ebbed and
flowed and surged around them, and the music began again, and Juliet
listened and listened.

"Who are you, sir," she cried, at last, "that speak our tongue with
feigned accent?"

"A stranger; an idler in Verona, though not a gay one--a black
butterfly."

"Our Italian sun will gild your wings for you. Black edged with gilt
goes gay."

"I am already not so sad-colored as I was."

"I would fain see your face, sir; if it match your voice, it needs must
be a kindly one."

"I would we could change faces."

"So we shall at supper!"

"And hearts, too?"

"Nay, I would not give a merry heart for a sorrowful one; but I will
quit my mask, and you yours; yet," and she spoke under her breath, "if
you are, as I think, a gentleman of Verona--a Montague--do not unmask."

"I am not of Verona, lady; no one knows me here;" and Hamlet threw back
the hood of his domino. Juliet held her mask aside for a moment, and the
two stood looking into each other's eyes.

"Lady, we have in faith changed faces, at least as I shall carry yours
forever in my memory."

"And I yours, sir," said Juliet, softly, "wishing it looked not so pale
and melancholy."

"Hamlet," whispered Mercutio, plucking at his friend's skirt, "the
fellow there, talking with old Capulet--his wife's nephew, Tybalt,
a quarrelsome dog--suspects we are Monta