And now the sons of Duncan, and the fiery Macduff, infuriated at the slaughter of his wife and babes, had landed on the shores of Scotland. Their army was gathered. They were marching towards Dunsinane to beleaguer the usurper in his very stronghold. Macbeth heard of their movements, and buckling on his armor, awaited the approach of their forces. His courage rose high at the first scent of battle, and his cheek, paled with the terrors which conscience had inflicted, grew ruddy at the sound of the trumpets. While in the midst of his warlike preparations, a startled messenger came in with fear distorting all his visage. The forest of Birnam, three miles away, was moving towards them. It was already coming across the heath, in the middle of which stood the castle of Dunsinane. The sentinels upon the outer walls had seen the strange spectacle, and, mad with fear, had fled back into the inner court-yards.
Then Macbeth’s heart sank in despair. Had fate so mocked him? He seemed to hear a peal of ghostly laughter from the pit of Hecate, which rang the death-knell to his fortunes. As he thought thus, the cries and moanings of women told him that his wife, the last stay and comfort in his misery, was dead. He heard it with the strong calmness of despair, and gave no time to grief or lamentation.
