“We hear our cruel cousins are bestowed in England and Ireland, not confessing their murder of their father,” continued Macbeth, who now pretended to believe that King Duncan’s own sons had killed him. “But more of that to-morrow. Hie you to horse! Adieu till you return at night.” Then, in a voice of feigned carelessness, he asked Banquo if Fleance were going with him that afternoon. Banquo replied that he was, and that they ought to start at once, and with a few final words of civil farewell Macbeth at last let him depart. Directly he had gone, Macbeth gave an order to an attendant, and two men of grim and sinister aspect were secretly ushered into his presence. These were two murderers whom he had hired to assassinate Banquo. When he had got their consent to the cruel deed, Macbeth told them that within the next hour he would instruct them where to plant themselves, and let them know the exact hour, for the deed must be done that night, and at some distance from the palace. He also gave them strict injunctions that the work was to be done thoroughly, and that the young boy Fleance was to be slain with his father, for his absence was just as material to Macbeth as was Banquo’s. The murderers promised to obey his directions, and he dismissed them. If Macbeth were troubled in mind and ill at ease, his wife was no happier. She had reached the height of her ambition: her husband was King of Scotland. But the royal crown that glittered on her brow brought no charm with it to soothe the restless trouble at her heart. “Nought’s had, all’s spent, When our desire is got without content; ’Tis safer to be that which we destroy, Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy.” That was the secret of their misery; Macbeth and Lady Macbeth had got their heart’s desire, and in the unworthy getting of it they found it brought them no content or peace of mind. Sick at heart, weary, dissatisfied, it would have been hard to find a sadder pair that day in Scotland than the King and Queen in their royal robes, on the eve of their grand state banquet. But true to her old undaunted spirit, even in the midst of her own depression, Lady Macbeth tried to rouse her husband from his despondent gloom. “How now, my lord?” she said. “Why do you keep alone, making companions of sorriest fancies? Things without all remedy should be without regard; what’s done is done.”