tions. Their smileless faces wore the blackness of the night; their voices sounded like the cry of vultures, or the shriek of the harpies when they swoop upon their prey.
What was the business of these minions of Hecate on the heath of Forres on such a night? Their meetings never boded good; their only purpose was to foster crime, to hint black deeds to minds still innocent, to poison with venomous suggestion the most wholesome conscience. All day they had watched the distant smoke and dust of battle, and only when the exhausted armies paused at the coming of night, had they begun upon this spot their unearthly orgies.
While they were still muttering and gibbering, two figures were seen riding across the plain on their way to the castle of Forres, from whose distant towers a light was shining here and there through the obscure mist. At sight of them, a sudden gleam of exultation lighted up the expressionless faces of the witches. The tallest horseman, still riding erect and proudly, in spite of the day’s fatigues, was Macbeth, Thane of Glamis, a kinsman of the Scottish king, chief of a royal clan, the handsomest, bravest, and proudest of all King Duncan’s nobles. With him rode Banquo, another cousin of the king, a man of rare virtue; not approved so much for his brave deeds, as for his wisdom in council; shining
