Then I listened in amazement as Hamlet related how he had gone with Horatio to the parapet last night, to the very place of our embracing. There the guards had lately seen a ghostly apparition. My skin prickled as Hamlet told how he, too, beheld the ghost of his dead father, armed from head to toe. How he followed the beckoning vision into the darkness despite Horatio's warning that it might tempt him to madness. How his very bones froze as the perturbed spirit revealed that he, King Hamlet, had been murdered.
"Murdered?" I echoed. "But how? And why?"
"Yes, murdered. Claudius was the serpent who stung my father," Hamlet said, agony in his voice and eyes. "The spirit told me how my uncle poured juice of henbane into his ears, curdling his blood and cutting off his life."