Macduff dashes onto the scene in pursuit of his family's murderer. "Where is that fiend?" he snarls. "Tyrant, show thy face! If you are slain by a hand not mine own, my murdered family will haunt me yet. I cannot fight these wretched kerns, who bear their spears out of mere fear of you! Either I duel with you, Macbeth, or my sword goes unused. Soft! the greatest skirmish in that direction would betray your location. Fortune, let me find him and nothing more shall I ask."
In the midst of the fighting, Macduff finds Macbeth. "Turn, hellhound!" he thunders. Macbeth turns slowly and calmly to face his enemy.
"Leave me, Macduff," he says, grimacing. "My soul is drenched enough with your blood."
"I have nothing to say to you; let my sword be my voice!" Macduff roars, and swings wrathfully at Macbeth. They parry and block, thrust and lunge, Macduff with mortal fury and Macbeth with an otherworldly calm.
"You're wasting your time, Macduff," pants Macbeth. "You'd as quickly wound the air as graze my skin. Three witches predicted that I would become Thane of Cawdor and King of Scotland. They also said that no man born of a woman could harm me. You, my friend, are powerless to hurt me."
"Fool! Did not your little witch friends mention that I was prematurely ripped from my mother's womb?"
Macbeth freezes. "I'll not fight with you," he utters.
"Then yield yourself, coward, and we shall display you with our other monsters at a sideshow for the populace to gawk at!"
Macbeth meets his eyes with a stare that makes him shudder. "That I will never endure! Go ahead, fight me to the death. And damned be him that first cries, 'Stop, enough!'"
They fight and Macbeth is slain. Macduff beheads him and, bearing his trophy, finds Malcolm and hails him as the new King of Scotland.