ran off shouting,
"The Moor has killed my mistress!"
then, taking breath, gave the long-sustained, ever-rising, blood-curdling cry:
"Murder! Murder! Murder!"
One hand up, and one long clanging peal of a bell.
"Murder! Murder! Murder!"
One hand up and bell.
"Murder! Murder! Murder!"
Both hands up, and pandemonium broken loose—and, oh, joy! the audience applauding furiously.
"One—two—three—four," I counted with closed lips, then with a fresh breath I burst upon the stage, followed by armed men, and with one last long full-throated cry of "Murder! the Moor has killed my mistress!" stood waiting for the applause to let me go on. A trick? yes, a small trick—a mere pretence to more breath than I really had, but it aroused the audience, it touched their imagination. They saw the horror-stricken woman racing through the night—waking the empty streets to life by that ever-thrilling cry of "Murder!" A trick if you like, but on the stage "success" justifies the means, and that night, under cover of the applause of the house, there came to me a soft clapping of hands and in muffled tones the words: "Bravo—bravo!" from Othello.