Banquo, with its gaping wounds and dripping blood.
His reason and self-command gave way at the sight, and while the wondering guests saw only the empty chair, and the wild, distraught looks of their new monarch, Macbeth beheld his victim shake his gory locks at him in solemn threatening, and silently withdraw.
Thrice did the ghost appear, and thrice did Macbeth cower in abject horror at the dreadful sight, until his wife—now at the summit of her wishes, as the Queen of Scotland—bade the company depart, since some strange freak of fancy made her lord unfit for guests and banquets.
Unhappy Macbeth! he had paid too large a price for his greatness. No more wholesome sleep visited the pillow where he laid his weary head. His nights were filled with dreadful visitants, and his days were spent in devising plans by which he might make his power more stable and enduring. Remorse could not bring him penitence. He pictured himself in a sea of blood, whose shores were boundless. It was as easy to go forward on its crimson waves as to turn back. Since he had stained his hands with blood, courage, hope, and pity seemed dead to him.
But the unhappy woman who had shared his
