But instantly avoids even the appearance of committing himself by the cautious reserve—
Yet I have known those which have walked in their sleep who have died holily in their beds.
What a picture of a tyrant’s castle. These trembling slaves dare neither of them express an opinion or confess they have seen what they are seeing—even to each other in the silence and solitude of the night.
The dream of the haunted lady now quickens its flow. She is back again at the murder scene whose successful completion has gratified all her worldly hopes and ambition, and at the same time blasted her mind and soul.
Hear her nervous, convulsed reiteration of the minutest incident of that too well remembered hour.
Wash your hands, put on your night-gown;
Then the dream shifts once more.
I tell you yet again, Banquo’s buried; he cannot come out of his grave.
Then back to the night of the murder.
To bed—to bed. There’s knocking at the gate. Come, come, come, come. Give me your hand, what’s done cannot be undone. To bed, to bed, to bed.