At that moment Balthasar appeared, just as he had come off his journey. Romeo’s heart leapt up anew at the sight of him.
“News from Verona!” he cried. “How now, Balthasar? Do you not bring me letters from the Friar? How doth my lady? Is my father well? How fares my Juliet? I ask that again, for nothing can be ill if she be well.”
Balthasar bowed his head, and spoke sadly and solemnly.
“Then she is well, and nothing can be ill. Her body sleeps in Capulet’s monument, and her immortal part with angels lives. I saw her laid low in her kindred’s vault, and took post at once to tell it you. Oh, pardon me for bringing this ill news, since you left it for my office, sir.”
Stunned by the blow. Romeo made no loud outcry; those who are stricken to the heart have no power to bewail their misery.
“Is it even so? Then I defy you, stars!” was all he said, when he heard the fatal tidings. The boyish turbulence, the violent outpourings of grief, the noisy despair that had followed his former woes found no voice in his present calamity. His was the calmness of one who knows that for him all hope is over. “You know my lodging; get me ink and paper,” he said to Balthasar. “And hire post-horses. I will hence to-night.”
“I do beseech you, sir, have patience,” said the serving-man. “Your looks are wild and pale, and import some misadventure.”
“Tush! You are deceived,” said Romeo. “Leave me, and do the thing I bid you do. Have you no letters to me from the Friar?”
“No, my good lord.”
“No matter. Get you gone, and hire those horses. I’ll be with you directly.”