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.”