There was another roll of thunder, and a second Apparition arose from the cauldron, a blood-stained Child.
“Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth!”
“Had I three ears, I’d hear thee.”
“Be bloody, bold, and resolute; laugh to scorn The power of man, for none of woman born Shall harm Macbeth.”
“Then live, Macduff; what need I fear of thee?” cried Macbeth. “But yet I’ll make assurance double sure; thou shalt not live; that I may tell pale-hearted fear it lies, and sleep in spite of thunder.”
There was a third roll of thunder, and a third Apparition rose—a Child crowned, with a tree in its hand.
“What is this that rises like the issue of a King, and wears upon his baby brow the round of sovereignty?”
“Listen, but do not speak to it,” commanded the witches; and the Apparition spoke on:
“Be lion-mettled, proud; and take no care Who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are: Macbeth shall never vanquished be until Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill Shall come against him.”
“That will never be!” cried Macbeth, in delighted relief, as the vision of the baby King sank back into the cauldron. As he truly said, who could remove the forest, and bid the trees unfix their earth-bound roots? All the bodements were good. Fate seemed bright before him. But there was still one thing his heart throbbed to know.