Witchcraft is now a thing of the past, as far as England is concerned, unless there still lingers in some very remote corners a belief in the power for evil of some poor old body, whose only claim for such distinction is, perhaps, her loneliness and ugliness. But in ancient days, and even into the last century, such a belief was a very usual thing. “Wise women,” as they were often called, who pretended they had the power of foretelling the future, were by no means uncommon, and even learned people and those in high positions were not ashamed to consult them with regard to coming events. In Scotland this belief lingered much longer than in England, and even to this day, in remote parts of the Highlands, there are some who claim they have the gift of “second sight”—that is, that they can see in advance events that will happen several years hence.
The time when the present story occurred was hundreds of years ago, in the year 1039, before William the Conqueror had come to Britain, and when England and Scotland were entirely separate kingdoms.
The throne of Scotland was then occupied by a King called Duncan. The country at all times was much at the mercy of Northern invaders, and just at that period it was suffering from the inroads of the Norwegian hosts, who, secretly aided by the traitor Thane of Cawdor, had obtained a footing in the eastern county of Fife. But their brief victory was changed to defeat by the valour of the Scotch Generals, Macbeth and Banquo. Sweyn, King of Norway, was forced to sue for a truce, and had even to pay a fine of ten thousand dollars to obtain leave to bury his men who had fallen in the fight.
News was brought to King Duncan of the victory that had been gained by the valour of Macbeth, and, pronouncing the doom of instant death on the traitor Thane of Cawdor, he ordered that his title should be bestowed as a reward on Macbeth.
It was a wild night, on a desolate heath near Forres. The setting sun, low down on the horizon, cast a blood-red glow over the withered bracken and a group of blasted fir-trees. The thunder rolled overhead, the wind howled in long moaning gusts, the lightning flashed in jagged streaks. But to the three strange figures that approached from different quarters, and met in the centre of this lonely heath, such wild weather was of no import, or, rather, it suited well with their grim and sinister mood. Children of the night, their deeds were those of darkness. The wholesome sunlight and the breath of day made them shrink and cower in secret lurking-places, but when midnight veiled the sky they stole out to their unholy revels, or on the wings of the tempest they rode forth, bringing death or disaster to all who crossed their track.
“Where hast thou been, sister?” asked the first witch.
And the second replied: “Killing swine.”
“Sister, where thou?” asked the third witch.
“A sailor’s wife had chestnuts in her lap, and munched, and munched, and munched,” said the first witch. “‘Give me,’ quoth I. ‘Aroint thee, witch!’ the pampered creature cried. Her husband’s to Aleppo gone, master of the Tiger; but in a sieve I’ll thither sail, and, like a rat without a tail, I’ll do, I’ll do, and I’ll do,” ended the witch spitefully.