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 he utters it:—Neither can it be denied, that the intrepid Richard is shaken with at least equal alarm, when, starting from the dream in which the souls of those whom he had murdered had appeared to him, he cries:— Have mercy, Jesu!—Soft!—I did but dream. O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me!— The lights burn blue. It is now dead midnight. Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh, &c.

That Macbeth's superstition proceeds from credulity, is a truth not likely