fore him appeared a long procession of ghostly spirits led by Banquo's bloody ghost.

"Oh horrible sight! Oh, now I see it's true; for the blood stained Banquo smiled upon me as he passed, and pointed at the shades as his.

hour be forever accursed.

Oh, let this pernicious
And calling up the

witches again, he vowed vengence upon the thane of Fife, the child of Banquo, and all who should again dare cross him.

Wretched Macbeth! honor and happiness he had sacrificed to his ambition. He had killed the king and filled his nights with horrors,-all-that Banquo's son might be king of Scotland. Already Macduff, the thane of Fife, against whom the spirit had warned him, had fled to England to join an army under one of Duncan's sons, to march against Macbeth.

Wild with rage and fear, when he heard this he set upon the castle of Macduff, killed his wife and children, and threatened with death all who should claim relationship with Macduff.

This unwarranted act of cruelty aroused the nobility against Macbeth, and many more fled to England to join the army which was now, indeed, becoming powerful. Everybody was coming to hate the tyrant. Nobody loved or honored him, and worst of all he could not honor himself. Hearing that the army was approaching, that it had already come to Dunsinane, and had there fortified itself, he said wearily:

I have liv'd long enough; my way of life
Is fall'n into the sear, the yellow leaf:
And that which should accompany old age,
As, honor, love, obedience, troops of friends,
I must not look to have; but, in their stead,
Curses not loud, but deep, mouth-honor, breath,
Which the poor heart would fain deny, but dare not.

Lady Macbeth herself, worn out with terrible dreams by night, and never absent memories of crime by day, has come already to be a broken-down, half-crazed, wretched, defeated woman. Death came to her at last some say by her own hand, and so she was spared the downfall of the kingdom so close at hand.

What could better show the utter despair of Macbeth, his weariness of his own sin, than these words of his, when news of his wife's death were brought him?

Macb. I have almost forgot the taste of fears;
The time has been my senses would have cool'd
To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair
Would at a dismal treatise rouse, and stir

As life were in't. I have supp'd full with horrors;
Direness, familiar to my slaught'rous thoughts,
Cannot once start me Wherefore was that cry?
Sey. The queen, my lord, is dead.

Macb. She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,

To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,

And then is heard no more: it is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

Now he grew careless of life, and longed for his own death, perhaps more than did his enemies. But Malcolm's army was coming on. This aroused his hate and whatever there may have remained of his old courage. "I cannot be defeated," he would say to himself, little as I care, until Birnam wood shall come to Dunsinane, and surely that can never be.”

But one day a messenger rushed into his presence breathless and shaking with fear.

"Well, boy, what is it?"

"My gracious lord, I hardly know how to report that which I saw. For as I stood upon the hill, and looked towards Birnam, it seemed to me the wood began to move."

"Liar and slave!" cried Macbeth. "If you have spoken false you shall hang alive to-morrow!" Out upon the hill rushed Macbeth. True enough! there was the wood approaching—at least, so it seemed; for the wise general on reaching Birnam forest had ordered that every soldier cut for himself a large branch,

and, bearing it before him, so conceal the number of the army from Macbeth's sentries.

There is little more to tell. From the beginning of the terrible battle, Macbeth knew he must perish. Still, urged on by fierce hate, he rushed with rage and fury into the thickest of the fight.

MCDUFF AND MACBETH MEET.

"Of all men else, I have avoided thee.
But get thee back! My soul is too much
Charged with blood of thine already; I will
Not fight with thee," cried Macbeth.

"Then live," thundered Macduff, "and we will make a show of thee. We will put a painted board upon thee, on which we'll say, 'Behold the Tyrant.'

"I will not live! Before my body I throw my war

like shield. Lay on Macduff! and cursed he he that first cries, Hold! enough!""

And so they fought. Macbeth was killed, and a great shout rose from the battle field."

"Hail, Malcolm! Hail, King of Scotland."