I arrive at the square to find two servants of the house of Capulet and a pair of mine kinsmen’s own—a burly rogue called Abram and Romeo’s boy, Balthasar—standing toe to toe. On my oath, I do tire of scenes such as this. Mayhap I should let them tussle and tear themselves to pieces in the name of this feud that is not even justly theirs. But nay, ’tis not in me to do so, and I know if they attack, I will be compelled to intercede.
Capulet’s man, a long wiry fellow with little hair—I have heard him called Sampson—dares to bite his thumb at his rivals! (How bold he thinks himself to be, and yet how childish he appears, clutching his thumb in his mouth like a teething babe.) Montague’s servants take great offense at such an insult, and in moments, swords are drawn. With
a steady arm, I withdraw my own blade, and in three swift strides I reach them.
“Part, fools!” I command, commencing to beat down their weapons.
Balthasar knows me and stands down fast. Abram too sheaths his blade. I doubt the two dimwits in Capulet’s employ recognize me; still, they seem to understand I carry some measure of authority, and they lower their swords.
I am about to remind them that the populace, not to mention Prince Escalus himself, has lost patience with the hostile mischief born of a feud ’twixt two stubborn families who call themselves noble (though I see naught that is noble in wounding one’s neighbors in the streets). I am about to advise them to disperse. But I am interrupted by a firm hand gripped round my throat.