Ay, Seward—reserved and close as he is—he wants nerve—pluck—he is close upon the coward—and that would be well, were there the slightest tendency towards change of purpose in the Pale Face; but there is none—he is as cruel as ever—the more close the more cruel—the more irresolute the more murderous—for to murder he is sure to come. Seward, you said well—why does not the poor devil speak up—speak out? Is he afraid of the spiders?
TALBOYS.
Murderous-looking villain—no need of words.
NORTH.
I did not say, sir, there was any need of words. Why, will you always be contradicting one?
TALBOYS.
Me? I? I hope I shall never live to see the day on which I contradict Christopher North in his own Tent. At least—rudely.
NORTH.
Do it rudely—not as you did now—and often do—as if you were agreeing with me—but you are incurable. I say, my dear Talboys, that Macbeth so bold in a "twa-haun'd crack" with himself in a Soliloquy—so figurative—and so fond of swearing by the Stars and old Mother Night, who were not aware of his existence—should not have been thus tongue-tied to his own wife in their own secretest chamber—should have unlocked and flung open the door of his heart to her—like a Man. I blush for him—I do. So did his wife.
BULLER.