MACBETH      Another yet?—A seventh? I’ll see no more.—

And yet the eighth appears, who bears a glass

Which shows me many more; and some I see

That two-fold balls and treble sceptres carry.

Horrible sight! Now I see ’tis true,

For the blood-boltered Banquo smiles upon me,

And points at them for his.

[Exeunt Banquo and kings]               (4.1.116-122)

The kings just keep coming, six, seven, eight. That’s it, apparently, but the eighth bears the magic glass, which apparently shows many more; it could be a mirror. Sometimes it’s been suggested that at a court performance, the eighth king could show King James his own reflection, incorporating him into the Stuart succession and bringing the play into the present. Or else if it’s a crystal or a scrying glass, a glass into which the viewer looks for messages or signs (like the now more familiar crystal ball) the king carrying it could gesture to it, or invite Macbeth himself to look. The two-fold balls and treble sceptres carried by some of the other kings have been interpreted in various ways, but it seems certain that they too allude to James I (the two-fold balls, double orbs, referring to his sovereignty over Scotland and England, and his two coronations; the treble sceptres the two that he bore at his English coronation and one at his Scottish—or treble could be England, Scotland, Wales, or Britain, Ireland, France, the latter two still claimed at this point by the British crown). At court, orb and sceptres could be offered to King James, or (more likely) gestured to. Horrible sight says Macbeth, which is a lot, coming from him, given the horrible sights he’s seen and been responsible for—although he could already be looking at the last figure in the procession, the properly final straw: now I see ’tis true, that Banquo’s heirs will inherit the Scottish throne, for the blood-boltered Banquo smiles upon me, and points at them for his. Blood-boltered perhaps gives another clue as to the appearance of Banquo’s Ghost: it describes hair covered with so much blood that it’s in knots, matted, clotted. This truly horrible sight smiles—horribly—at Macbeth and points at them for his. These are all mine, my heirs, my dynasty. Macbeth, the childless king, the barren, impotent usurper can only gaze in horror and despair. There’s scope here for much more action than might initially appear on the page: this procession can be almost a dumb show, a pageant of Macbeth’s fears, and his failure.