That night was dark and wild, one of the roughest that had ever been known. The moon went down at twelve o’clock, and after that all was black, not a star visible. The wind moaned and wailed round the turrets of the castle, chimneys were blown down, strange screams were heard, which seemed to foretell coming woe; the owl, the fatal bellman of death, shrieked the livelong night.
The inmates of the castle were disturbed and uneasy; it was late before they sought their rooms, for there was feasting and revelry because of the King’s arrival; and, then, to many of them, sleep was impossible, because of the raging of the storm outside. But of what was happening in their midst they had no suspicion.
At the appointed hour, Macbeth, trembling with terror at his own deed, crept into Duncan’s room, and killed the King. He looked so calm and peaceful as he lay there wrapt in slumber that sudden remorse filled the heart of the murderer, and he stood fixed in horror, gazing at what he had done. In a neighbouring room two of the King’s followers stirred and called out in their sleep. One laughed, and one cried “Murder!” so that they woke each other; and Macbeth stood and heard them. But with a muttered prayer they turned again to sleep, and presently Macbeth recovered sufficiently to creep back to his wife to tell her that the deed was done.
But though he had nerved himself to strike the blow, all Macbeth’s courage again ebbed away. He shuddered with horror when he looked at the blood on his hands, and it was all his wife could do to rouse him from the sort of stupor that seemed to have seized him.
“These deeds must not be thought of in this way; it will make us mad,” she said, when Macbeth was telling her what had happened in the chamber of the King.
“Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers.”
“Methought I heard a voice cry, ‘Sleep no more!’” continued Macbeth, still in the same dazed fashion: “‘Macbeth doth murder sleep’—the innocent sleep, balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course, chief nourisher in life’s feast——”