“Upon my knees, what doth your speech import?” she cried piteously. “I understand a fury in your words, but not the words.”
Othello answered with a torrent of angry accusations, which utterly bewildered Desdemona, and then he abruptly left her, while Emilia vainly tried to soothe and comfort her. This good woman was not slow to express her indignation at Othello’s shameful behaviour, and loudly announced her opinion that he was being deceived by “some base notorious knave, some scurvy fellow!”
“Oh, heaven, that thou would’st make such people known, and put in every honest hand a whip to lash the rascals naked through the world, even from the east to the west!” she cried, with flashing eyes.
This was not very pleasant hearing for Iago, who was standing by, and he harshly told Emilia she was a fool, and bade her be silent. Then, when Desdemona appealed to him, asking what she should do to win her lord again, Iago pretended to think it was only a little ill-temper on Othello’s part, that business of the State had offended him, and consequently he was out of humour with Desdemona.
There was some colour for this suggestion, for a special commission had just arrived from Venice, commanding Othello to return home, and deputing Cassio as Governor of Cyprus in his place.
Iago saw that, if he wanted to dispose of Cassio, there was no time to be lost, for Iago himself would be obliged to leave the island in Othello’s suite. He therefore contrived to incite his feeble-minded tool Roderigo to set upon Cassio in the dark that very night and murder him. The attempt, however, was not successful. Roderigo only managed to wound Cassio, and was himself badly injured in return. Some passers-by—the messengers from Venice—hearing groans in the street, stopped to give help, but it was too dark to distinguish the sufferers. The next person to arrive on the scene was Iago himself, with a light, and coming across the wounded Roderigo, and fearing he would betray his share in the plot, he treacherously stabbed him to death. Cassio was then carefully conveyed away for his wounds to be dressed.
That night, when Desdemona was preparing for bed, a strange melancholy seemed to take possession of her. Emilia, who was in attendance, tried to divert her mind by getting her to join in a little idle talk, but Desdemona’s thoughts were running on sad themes.
“My mother had a maid called Barbara,” she said musingly. “She was in love, and he she loved proved mad, and did forsake her. She had a song of ‘willow’: an old thing it was, but it expressed her fortune, and she died singing it; that song to-night will not go from my mind.”
And presently, as Emilia helped her to disrobe, Desdemona began singing in a sweet, plaintive key: