[Sits down resolutely with his back to the castle.
Fortinbras.
[Turning up his coat collar resignedly.] It’s perfect rot, you know,
To let yourself be frightened by a Ghost!
Horatio.
[Angrily.] A Ghost! You’re always so inaccurate!
Nobody minds a spectre at the feast
Less than Horatio, but a dozen spectres,
All sitting round your hospitable board
And clamouring for dinner, are a sight