’Tis unnatural, Even like the deed that’s done. On Tuesday last, A falcon, towering in her pride of place, Was by a mousing owl hawk’d at and kill’d. 

 ROSS. And Duncan’s horses (a thing most strange and certain) Beauteous and swift, the minions of their race, Turn’d wild in nature, broke their stalls, flung out, Contending ’gainst obedience, as they would make War with mankind. 

 OLD MAN. ’Tis said they eat each other. 

 ROSS. They did so; to the amazement of mine eyes, That look’d upon’t. Here comes the good Macduff. 

Enter Macduff.

Macduff

 How goes the world, sir, now? 

 MACDUFF. Why, see you not? 

 ROSS. Is’t known who did this more than bloody deed? 

 MACDUFF. Those that Macbeth hath slain. 

 ROSS. Alas, the day! What good could they pretend? 

 MACDUFF. They were suborn’d. Malcolm and Donalbain, the King’s two sons, Are stol’n away and fled; which puts upon them Suspicion of the deed. 

 ROSS. ’Gainst nature still: Thriftless ambition, that will ravin up Thine own life’s means!—Then ’tis most like The sovereignty will fall upon Macbeth. 

 MACDUFF. He is already nam’d; and gone to Scone To be invested. 

 ROSS. Where is Duncan’s body? 

 MACDUFF. Carried to Colmekill, The sacred storehouse of his predecessors, And guardian of their bones. 

 ROSS. Will you to Scone? 

 MACDUFF. No, cousin, I’ll to Fife. 

 ROSS. Well, I will thither. 

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