In his furious fighting on the battle-field he presently encountered one of the English leaders, whom he promptly slew. Macbeth laughed in triumph, for he felt himself secure; he feared no weapon brandished by any man born of woman. But the hour of fate was at hand. Macduff, scorning to strike the wretched peasants, hired to fight, sought everywhere for Macbeth, determined either to slay the tyrant or sheathe his sword unused. And at last he found him. But Macbeth seemed to shrink from the furious challenge. “Of all men else I have avoided thee,” he said. “But get thee back; my soul is too much charged with blood of thine already.” “I have no words; my voice is in my sword,” returned Macduff. They fought, but for awhile neither got the better. Then Macbeth told Macduff that he was losing labour, for it was as easy for his keen sword to hurt the air as to wound him. He bore a charmed life, which could not yield to one of woman born. “Despair thy charm!” cried Macduff. And the next moment Macbeth knew that the witches had doubly deceived him, for his second hope had failed--Macduff proclaimed that his birth had been different from that of ordinary mortals, so that in a way he might be said never to have been born. “Accursed be the tongue that tells me so!” exclaimed Macbeth, “for it hath cowed my better part of man. And be those juggling fiends no more believed, that palter with us in a double sense; that keep the word of promise to the ear, and break it to our hope. I’ll not fight with thee!” “Then yield thee, coward!” taunted Macduff, “and live to be the show and gaze of the time; we’ll have thee, as our rarer monsters are, painted upon a pole, and underwrit, ‘Here you may see the tyrant.’” His words goaded Macbeth’s failing nerve to fresh fury. Desperate and despairing, he flung his final challenge at his foe. “I will not yield to kiss the ground before young Malcolm’s feet, and to be baited with the rabble’s curse! Though Birnam Wood be come to Dunsinane, and thou opposed, being of no woman born, yet I will try the last. Before my body I throw my warlike shield. Lay on, Macduff, and cursed be him that first cries, ‘Hold, enough!’” [Illustration: “Lay on, Macduff!”] * * * * * The fight was over, and as the victorious generals gathered on the field of battle, with drums beating and flags flying, Macduff approached, bearing the head of the slain Macbeth, and saluted the young Prince Malcolm as King of Scotland. “Hail, King! For so thou art. Behold where stands the usurper’s cursed head; the land is free. Hail, King of Scotland!” And the trumpets sounded, and a universal shout rent the air: “Hail, King of Scotland!” [Illustration: “The wood began to move.”] Hamlet [Illustration] A Vision at Midnight