“Romeo slew him, he slew Mercutio,” said the Prince, grieving for the loss of his own kinsman. “Who owes the price for Mercutio’s dear blood?”
“Not Romeo, Prince; he was Mercutio’s friend,” said Montague. “His fault only concludes what the law should have ended—the life of Tybalt.”
“And for that offence we exile him immediately,” pronounced the Prince, determined by severe measures to put a stop to the incessant brawling that was bringing sorrow to so many noble families. “I have suffered because of your hate—my dear kinsman is slain. But I will punish you with so heavy a fine that you shall all repent my loss. I will be deaf to pleading and excuses; neither tears nor prayers shall soften this sentence, therefore use none. Let Romeo leave the city at once; else, when he is found, that hour shall be his last. Mercy only encourages murder when it pardons those who kill.”
“Banished!”
When Juliet hastened to Friar Laurence’s cell to be married to Romeo, her nurse went off in another direction, to secure a ladder of cords, so that the young husband might visit his wife that evening, and speak to her with less danger of discovery than if she were up in the balcony and he below in the orchard.
This nurse of Juliet’s was a talkative, easy-tempered old person, very fond of her nursling—of whom she had had charge since she was a baby—and good-natured after a fashion, but vulgar-minded, and very selfish if anything came to cross her own convenience. Juliet had coaxed her into sympathy about her present affairs, and Romeo, being a very handsome, open-handed young gentleman, the nurse for the moment was on their side, and consented to act as messenger between them. But her own aches and pains were at all times more important to the old woman than the concerns of anyone else; and even when returning from her mission to settle the time of the marriage, she was more occupied in recounting her own ailments than in relieving the anxiety of her young mistress to hear news of Romeo.
However, as long as things went well, she was willing to be amiable, and the young girl was at least not left entirely destitute of any confidant. But when trouble arose, the nurse’s shallow, selfish nature became apparent, and poor Juliet was soon to learn that she must rely solely on her own strength and judgment in the sorrows that overwhelmed her.
After the marriage Juliet returned home, and there presently the nurse joined her. She carried the ladder of cords she had gone to fetch, but she flung it down with a gesture of despair, and her face was the picture of woe.
“Ay me! What news? Why do you wring your hands?” exclaimed Juliet, a sudden chill of terror clouding the sunshine of her joy.
“Ah, well-a-day! he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead!” wailed the nurse. “We are undone, lady—we are undone! Alack the day! He’s gone, he’s killed, he’s dead!”