_Gent._ She has spoke, what she should not, I am sure of that: heaven knows what she has known. _Lady._ Here’s the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh! oh! oh! _Doct._ What a sight is there? The heart is sorely charg’d! _Gent._ I would not have such a heart in my bosom, for the dignity of the whole body. _Doct._ Well, well, well,— _Gent._ Pray God, it be, sir. _Doct._ This disease is beyond my practice: Yet I have known those which have walked in their sleep, who have died holily in their beds. _Lady._ Wash your hands, put on your night-gown; look not so pale.—I tell you yet again, Banquo’s buried; he cannot come out of his grave. _Doct._ Even so? _Lady._ To bed, to bed; there’s knocking at the gate.—Come, come, come, come, give me your hand; what’s done cannot be undone: To bed, to bed, to bed. (_Exit Lady._ _Doct._ Will she go now to bed? _Gent._ Directly. _Doct._ Foul whisperings are abroad: unnatural deeds Do breed unnatural troubles: infected minds To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets. More needs she the divine, than the physician.— God, God, forgive us all! Look after her; Remove from her the means of all annoyance, And still keep eyes upon her:—So, good-night: My mind she has mated, and amaz’d my sight: I think, but dare not speak. _Gent._ Good-night, good doctor. (_Exeunt._ There is not _a single word_ of this scene which can be spared—not one which is not impregnated with blood and horror. You feel the very silence of the sick, midnight apartment. Ye see the pale ashy countenance of the terror-stricken gentlewoman, and sympathize with her in having her lot cast in such an abode of guilt and danger. You see that she has called up all her energy and presence of mind, as in a great crisis, to enable her to conduct herself wisely, and to escape with safety from this den of royal murderers. You can see her cautious step—as if she started even at the creaking of her own shoe—the rustling of her own robe, or the sighing of the wind around the distant turrets of the castle. You have here a most admirable character, and, except that she is but so short a time on the stage, almost as worthy the genius of Mrs. Siddons as that of Lady Macbeth herself. Were I a young actress, desirous of making my appearance before the public, I should choose to study thoroughly and represent well this character first,—a very great effect might be given to it.