With a melancholy mind he had bent his steps that day towards Shottery. Such revels as the present he had before oft-times taken part in, and now (albeit he was in no mood for joviality), with the feeling and desire to observe the happiness of others, he had remained to look upon the sports.
His thoughts, indeed, were sad enough. He had lost his good friends from Clopton, after the terrible affliction of their house. He had been left alone after having tasted the sweets of their society, and this too in the midst of misery and disease. 'Tis true, that owing to the good management of his parents, and their being of more careful habits than the generality of the neighbours in their condition of life, they had kept the disease from their hearth, and for that he had reason to be thankful. But, added to the feeling of melancholy which the events we have before narrated had caused, was the knowledge that his father's circumstances were daily growing worse, and he felt too that he himself, although he had reached a time of life when he ought to be doing something, was without purse, profession, or prospect.
These thoughts, however, gradually gave place to interest in the surrounding scene. His was a mind and disposition which could scarcely witness the happiness of others without partaking of their joy, and gradually he became more and more interested. As he continued to observe the beautiful villager (for she was in the full blossom of her charms), he noticed that she seemed uneasy with her partner, and averse to his rough attentions. Watching more closely, he observed the overbearing style of the forester, and the increasing timidity of the maiden. That was enough for him. He moved nearer to them, and as the dance finished, he stepped up and accosted her.
"Your hand, fair maiden," he said, gently taking her hand in his. "But that I think you have fatigued yourself, I would dance with you."
There was so much sweetness in his voice and expression, as he said this, and his action was so gentle, that the maid resigned her hand, and, as she gazed at his handsome face, she unconsciously put her arm in his, and adopted him as her protector. In such cases the parties understood each other in a moment.
If there is one thing more likely than another to excite a desperate quarrel amongst men, it is rivalry in the affairs of love and gallantry. The veriest cur upon four legs can hardly brook being cut out unceremoniously before the eyes of his favourite, and to the tall forester, with the forbidding countenance, the fact of being thus outbraved by a stripling, was matter, at first, of astonishment more than anger. The fellow was a sort of champion too, one hired and kept by the knight of Charlecote as a sort of terror to evil-doers in his parks and preserves; an impudent, reckless, and quarrelsome companion; one whom most of the youths present would fain have avoided fastening a quarrel upon, inasmuch as he had kept the ring on Kenilworth Green for a whole Christmas, against all comers, a few years before.
Slightly bowing her head in courtesy, Anne Hathaway would have tripped off with her new friend and protector, but the keeper was not the man likely to put up with so unceremonious a parting. He stepped on a few paces, and presently overtook them.
"How now, young Master," he said to Shakespeare, "methinks you carry this matter as bravely as rudely? A word with you ere you walk off so quietly with my partner there."
As Anne, in some alarm, had rather urged her protector on, the forester unconsciously laid his hand upon his arm to detain him.
The youth snatched his arm quickly away. "Lay no fist of thine on me, sirrah," said he, "as many words as you like, but touch not my doublet."