“How now, my lord; I have been talking with a suitor here, a man that languishes in your displeasure,” said Desdemona, coming to meet her husband. “Who is it you mean?” “Why, your lieutenant, Cassio,” answered Desdemona; and then, with simple eloquence, she began to plead for the culprit. But Iago’s remark had ruffled Othello’s temper. “Went he hence now?” he asked abruptly. “Ay, truly; so humbled that he hath left part of his grief with me, to suffer with him. Good love, call him back.” “Not now, sweet Desdemona; some other time.” “But shall it be shortly?” “The sooner, sweet, because of you,” said Othello, softening a little. “Shall it be to-night at supper?” “No, not to-night.” “To-morrow dinner, then?” “I shall not dine at home; I meet the captains at the citadel.” “Why, then, to-morrow night; or Tuesday morning; or Tuesday noon, or night; or Wednesday morning. I prithee, name the time, but let it not exceed three days,” coaxed Desdemona with playful persistency. And she went on pleading for Cassio with such winning sweetness that Othello could resist no longer. “Prithee, no more; let him come when he will. I can deny thee nothing,” he exclaimed; and when Desdemona withdrew, happy at the promise she had extorted, he cried, with a sudden return to all his trust and affection, “Perdition catch my soul, but I do love thee! And when I love thee not, chaos is come again.” All might now have been well if Iago had not been at hand to pour his poison into Othello’s ear. With diabolical cunning--a hint suggested here, a half-retracted phrase there, an affectation of honesty that seemed always checking itself for fear of speaking too openly--Iago contrived to fix the basest suspicions on Cassio. With subtle craft he made it appear as though everything he said were reluctantly dragged from him, and, as on the night before, while making a great parade of trying to shield Cassio, he succeeded in blackening him with unfounded calumny. Not content with this, he next, in a serpent-like manner, began to insinuate suspicions against Desdemona, declaring that he would not on any account let Othello know what was in his thought, and beseeching him in the most meaning tone to beware of jealousy. Those who were jealous, he said, lived a life of torture--doating, yet doubting; mistrusting, yet loving. “Good Heaven! the souls of all my tribe defend me from jealousy!” he ended fervently. “Why--why is this?” demanded Othello, firing up, just as Iago had hoped he would do. “Do you think I would lead a life of jealousy, to follow still the changes of the moon with fresh suspicions? No; to be once in doubt is once to be resolved.... No, Iago; I’ll see before I doubt; when I doubt, prove; and on the proof there is no more but this--away at once with love, and--_jealousy_.”