Then, shaking off his despondency in a fresh outburst of fury, he rallied his men, determined to make a most stubborn resistance, no matter what forces were brought against him. “I will not be afraid of death and bane, till Birnam forest come to Dunsinane,” he cried, once more falling back for comfort on the witches’ prophecy.
News again came to Macbeth of the near approach of the English, and that the Scottish nobles were flocking to the standard of the young Prince. But he refused to be daunted.
“Hang out our banners on the outward walls,” he shouted. “The cry is still, ‘They come.’ Our castle’s strength will laugh a siege to scorn; here let them lie till famine and the ague eat them up.”
In the midst of his warlike commands, a cry of women was heard within the castle, and the news was told Macbeth that the Queen was dead. For a moment he was stunned. This, then, was the end of all their plotting and ambition! But now there was no time even to spend in grief.
“She should have died hereafter,” he said, with a bitter reflection on the vanity of human life. “There would have been time for such a word. To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day to the last syllable of recorded time, and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more; it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”
But his musing was interrupted; a messenger came hurrying up, his face full of terror.
“Thou comest to use thy tongue; thy story quickly.”
The man sank on his knee before Macbeth.
“Gracious my lord, I should report that which I say I saw, but know not how to do it.”
“Well, say, sir,” said Macbeth impatiently.