Ophelia
I shall obey, my lord.
Exeunt.
Scene IV
The platform.
Hamlet
The air bites shrewdly; it is very cold.
Horatio
It is a nipping and an eager air.
Hamlet
What hour now?
Horatio
I think it lacks of twelve.
Hamlet
No, it is struck.
Horatio
Indeed? I heard it not: then it draws near the season
Wherein the spirit held his wont to walk.
What does this mean, my lord?
A flourish of trumpets, and ordnance shot off, within.