Alarums. Enter Macduff

MACDUFF      That way the noise is. Tyrant, show thy face.

If thou beest slain, and with no stroke of mine,

My wife and children’s ghosts will haunt me still.

I cannot strike at wretched kerns whose arms

Are hired to bear their staves; either thou, Macbeth,

Or else my sword with an unbattered edge

I sheathe again undeeded. There thou shouldst be;

By this great clatter, one of greatest note

Seems bruited. Let me find him, fortune,

And more I beg not.

Exit. Alarums              (5.8.1-10)

This is pretty much the only chance that Macduff has to establish himself as a determined, courageous warrior who at the same time doesn’t abandon his moral code on the battlefield; it’s notable how little stage time he has, with the England scene his most significant appearance. The noise continues, drums and trumpets, alarums, and probably shouting, and Macduff is hunting Macbeth. That way the noise is; he’s assuming that Macbeth will be in the thick of things, where the sound of fighting is at its most intense. Tyrant, show thy face! A reminder that Macbeth is a tyrant, a usurper; come out and face the consequences of your actions! Then an emotional shift; this isn’t just political, the deposition and execution of a tyrant—it’s personal. If thou beest slain, and with no stroke of mine, my wife and children’s ghosts will haunt me still. I have to be the one to kill you; I have to avenge the killing of my family. If someone else has killed Macbeth already, I’ll never forgive myself, and I’ll be haunted by the ghosts of my family, their (reproachful?) faces always before me. I wasn’t there to defend them, to save them, my pretty chickens and their dam; this is all I can do for them now, so that they, and I, can rest in peace. I’ve got no appetite for fighting anyone else, really, and certainly not the wretched kerns, the conscripts, the peasants, whose arms are hired to bear their staves. (Macbeth’s relying on mercenaries, in effect.) They’re not even properly armed, all they have is staves, staffs, sticks. (Cannon fodder, food for powder, as Falstaff called them.) No, Macbeth’s the only one I’m prepared to fight, either thou, only you, you and no one else, and if I can’t, or elseI’ll put my sword away, its edge unbattered, unblunted, sheathe it undeeded, without having done anything. Unbattered is a reminder, too, of the force and violence of battlefield combat with bladed weapons, the notching of the blade, the dulling of its edge; these are broadswords, not rapiers. Undeeded is an odd coinage, but the ear perhaps supplies a rhyme word, bleed: the sword sheathed without action will also be unbloodied.

And then Macduff hears something, a shout, cheering, howling, booing? offstage presumably, from the direction in which Macbeth exited. There thou shouldst be; by that great clatter (swords banged on shields? might be too literal; even noisier than before, anyway) one of greatest note seems bruited. It sounds like someone important, the most important person, is occasioning all that noise, being bruited, being greeted. (Everyone offstage is going to be making noise, shouting and yelling—it’ll get their adrenaline going for the play’s final push, and most importantly, Macbeth’s too. A roar from the terraces as they go into extra time.) Let me find him, fortune, and more I beg not. Please let it be me who encounters Macbeth, so that I can do this, end this. That’s all I want. After that, it’s up to me.