“Tybalt,” returned Romeo mildly, “the reason I have for loving you prevents the rage which should follow such a greeting. I am no villain. Therefore, farewell. I see you do not know me.” “Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries you have done me. Therefore turn and draw.” “I do protest, I never injured you, but love you better than you can guess, till you shall know the reason of my love. And so, good Capulet--which name I speak as dearly as my own--be satisfied.” Mercutio had listened in amazement to Romeo’s gentle responses to Tybalt’s insults, but at this he could contain himself no further. “O calm, dishonourable, vile submission!” he cried in wrath, and drew his sword. “Tybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk?” “What would you have with me?” “Good king of cats, nothing but one of your nine lives. Will you pluck out your sword? Make haste, lest mine be about your ears before it be out.” “I am for you,” said Tybalt, drawing. “Gentle Mercutio, put your rapier up,” entreated Romeo. “Come, sir, begin,” was Mercutio’s only answer. “Draw, Benvolio, beat down their weapons,” cried Romeo imploringly. “Gentlemen, for shame, forbear this outrage! Tybalt, Mercutio, the Prince has expressly forbidden fighting in the streets of Verona. Hold, Tybalt! Good Mercutio!” In his eagerness to stay the combatants, Romeo tried to strike up their weapons, and Tybalt, seizing his advantage, stabbed Mercutio under Romeo’s arm. Then, seeing him reel back into Benvolio’s arms, Tybalt fled with his followers. “I am hurt,” said Mercutio. “A plague on both your houses! I am done for.... Is he gone, and hath nothing?” “What, are you hurt?” said Benvolio. “Ay, ay, a scratch--a scratch,” said Mercutio, with an attempt at his old light manner. “Marry, it’s enough. Where is my page? Go, villain, fetch a surgeon.” “Courage, man, the hurt cannot be much,” said Romeo tenderly. “No, it’s not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door,” said Mercutio, in his usual jesting style, though he could only gasp out the words with difficulty; “but it’s enough; it will serve. Ask for me to-morrow, and you shall find me a _grave_ man. I am peppered, I warrant, for this world.... A plague on both your houses!... Why the devil did you come between us? I was hurt under your arm.” “I thought all for the best,” said poor Romeo. “Help me into some house, Benvolio, or I shall faint,” gasped Mercutio.... “A plague on both your houses! ... they have made worm’s meat of me ... your houses....” Benvolio supported Mercutio away, but returned in a few minutes with the mournful tidings that the brave and gallant spirit had taken flight. Mercutio, the brilliant wit, the loyal friend, the light-hearted comrade, had fallen a victim to the dissension between the houses of Montague and Capulet. Jealous of his friend’s honour, as of his own, he had risked all in its defence, and he faced death, as he had done life, with undaunted bearing and a smile on his lips.