The doctor’s “Well, well, well,—” shows embarrassment the result of amazement. He scarcely knows what to do. He, also, has now become the possessor of an astounding and dangerous secret, and he might well be supposed to hesitate as to the proper course to pursue. He does not seem decided to acknowledge the full extent of his conviction, yet he cannot deny that the patient is not to be cured by his medicine. He does not seem inclined to enter upon any confidential interchanges of opinions with the gentlewoman. He is, in all things, the man of the world—the professional man and the courtier. The very air he breathes he may imagine full of eyes and ears. He may be no more inclined to trust the gentlewoman than she had been to trust him. Guilt, gloom, and danger preside over the blood-stained castle, and envelope the principal inmates—while suspicions, fear and silent watchfulness are hugged to the anxious bosom of each distrustful servant. The doctor’s “Well, well, well”—is a kind of mask to hide what is passing in his mind: and the gentlewoman with less art, equal prudence and more piety, ventures only upon the awe-struck prayer, Pray God, it be, sir! The doctor then confesses, This disease is beyond my practice! But instantly avoids even the appearance of _committing_ himself by the cautious reserve— Yet I have known those which have walked in their sleep who have died holily in their beds. What a picture of a tyrant’s castle. These trembling slaves dare neither of them express an opinion or confess they have seen what they are seeing—even to each other in the silence and solitude of the night. The dream of the haunted lady now quickens its flow. She is back again at the murder scene whose successful completion has gratified all her worldly hopes and ambition, and at the same time blasted her mind and soul. Hear her nervous, convulsed reiteration of the minutest incident of that too well remembered hour. Wash your hands, put on your night-gown; Then the dream shifts once more. I tell you yet again, Banquo’s buried; he cannot come out of his grave. Then back to the night of the murder. 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 Macbeth._ And thus, as from the new commission of a frightful crime, she returns to her bed, there to tremble—and writhe and dream—and act over again and again the bloody drama. _Doctor._ Will she now go to bed? _Gent._ Directly. Then the doctor, apparently excited out of his usual reserve, utters the thoughts which are passing in his mind. _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.—