The witches thereupon replied:
“Hail!” “Hail!” “Hail!”
“Lesser than Macbeth and greater!”
“Not so happy, yet much happier!”
“Thou shalt beget Kings, though thou be none. So all hail, Macbeth and Banquo!”
“Banquo and Macbeth, all hail!”
Macbeth would fain have questioned these mysterious creatures further, but not a word more would they speak. By the death of a relative, he was certainly Thane of Glamis, but, as far as he knew, the Thane of Cawdor lived, an honourable gentleman, for Macbeth had not yet heard of his treachery, and how his title was forfeited. And to be King stood not within the prospect of belief, no more than to be Thane of Cawdor. But when Macbeth again charged the witches to speak, they vanished, seeming almost to melt like bubbles into the misty twilight from which they had emerged.
The two victorious generals stood and looked at each other, mute for awhile with awe and wonder. They had fought with armed hosts on the field of battle, but here was a mystery which might amaze the stoutest heart. The poison was already beginning to work. Deeply ambitious at heart, though lacking in resolution to cut his way ruthlessly to the highest goal, the witches’ words had found a ready welcome in Macbeth’s secret desires. But not yet could he openly avow them.
“Your children shall be Kings,” he said to Banquo; and back came the answer which perhaps he was longing to hear:
“You shall be King!”