See, see, our honored hostess!

Out stepped Lady Macbeth. She had on a sort of nightgown which fit tightly around her neck and swept all the way to the floor. Only her brown head and black braid were showing. “Your servant ever,” she said.

“Give me your hand,” said the king, and the two actors walked side by side up the long stairway. Something was squeaking: Hobnover’s shoes. At the top, the king went through the door; she followed. Then the lights grew so dim that, try as you might, you couldn’t see the red beef, you couldn’t see the duck.

A bell rang. A pause. It rang again. It was sounding the hour. The eyes of the Jews got used to the lack of light. Mann Lifshits was standing by the foot of the stairs. He was wearing the same armor as before, and the same leather headgear. When the bell rang a third time, he took a step. Then he stretched out his hand. “Is this a dagger which I see before me?” He staggered upward, a step at a time, clutching at the empty air. “I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou but a dagger of the mind? A false creation?” The knife he meant was right there in his hand. That’s what was strange about his behavior. He held the blade out, staring at it, talking to it, as if it belonged to a different person. Raving that way, he went up the rest of the stairs.

At the top he waited, while the bell continued to toll. Twelve times altogether. Midnight.

Hear it not, Duncan, for it is a knell
That summons thee to Heaven, or to Hell.

So saying, Macbeth went into the king’s chamber.

Time went by. Maybe after all it would be a peaceful night. But the audience of Baluters was stirring. Something was going to happen, but they didn’t know what. Then there was a scream, a real shriek. It alarmed many people. Some of the playgoers wanted to leave. “It’s just an owl, an owl,” said Popower, Minister of Finance, from his seat at the front. Sure enough, the green eyes of the bird—perched on a beam in the rafters—started to glow. But the next scream was different. It came from behind the upstairs door. All by itself this portal swung open and Nathan Hobnover walked through. He streamed with red paint. His skin, his nightdress, were drenched in the liquid. It was still coming out. Slowly, he began to descend the stairs; the gold crown was still on his head. On the way down the strength of his heart failed him. He clasped his hands to it and opened his mouth. He looked like a tenor singing a song. Then, in a spray, he tumbled all the way down.

What chaos then! Everybody seemed to wake up at once. Macbeth and Lady Macbeth came out of the chamber. They clung in terror together. The servants and archers ran about, rubbing their eyes. Banquo, the second soldier, turned on the lights. “O horror!” he cried. “Horror, horror!” The whole cast was shouting.