thither a band of ruffians, who murdered in cold blood the defenseless wife and her pleading babes.
At length the rumors of Macduff’s success alarmed the monarch. He resolved to have recourse again to the augurs of his present fortunes. He would seek the cave of Hecate, and conjure the witches to unfold another page of the future, to tell him what was to be the end of his vexed and miserable life.
He found the cave—a dismal, subterraneous haunt—where they were wont to hold their midnight revels. The walls dripped with dampness, which felt to Macbeth’s groping fingers, slimy and thick, like human gore. Bats of monstrous size flitted through the noisome air; reptiles, cold and noiseless, glided under foot. In the midst the caldron burned, and about it glided the dimly seen forms of the weird sisters.
In this place Macbeth entreated those evil beings to tell him of his own fate, and who should wear the crown after him. The witches would not answer. They told the monarch he should hear their masters. Straightway the rocky floor opened, and from the gaping fissure rose an armed head.
It cried, “Beware Macduff!” and disappeared.
A moment more, and to the loud roar of
