“Not poppy, nor mandragora, nor all the drowsy syrups of the world, shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep which thou owned yesterday,” he said to himself maliciously. Othello’s peace of mind was, indeed, gone for ever, and all joy and interest in life were over. “Oh, now, for ever, farewell the tranquil mind, farewell content! Farewell the plumed troop, and the big wars that make ambition virtue! O, farewell! Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill trump, the spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife, the royal banner, and all quality, pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war! Farewell! Othello’s occupation’s gone.” “Is it possible, my lord?” murmured Iago, with feigned sympathy. Othello turned on him with sudden fury, and gripped him by the throat. “Villain, be sure you prove my love untrue! Be sure of it!” he cried, shaking him violently. [Illustration: “Villain, be sure you prove my love untrue!”] Iago pretended to be deeply aggrieved by Othello’s distrust, and said if necessary he could bring proofs of what he said. “Tell me but this,” he went on: “have you not sometimes seen a handkerchief, spotted with strawberries, in your wife’s hand?” “I gave her such a one; it was my first gift.” Iago said he did not know about that, but such a handkerchief he had seen in Cassio’s possession that very day. Naturally, after that, Othello could not fail to believe that Desdemona had given away his cherished gift to Cassio. He took the first opportunity to ask her for it, when, of course, she was unable to produce it. She had already been greatly distressed at the loss of her treasure, and now was so alarmed by the violent way in which Othello kept demanding it, that she dared not own it was lost, and only said she had it not about her at that moment. “That is a fault,” said Othello, frowning darkly. “That handkerchief was given to my mother by an Egyptian. She was a charmer, and could almost read the thoughts of people. She told her, while she kept it, it would make her amiable, and her husband would love her; but if she lost it, or made a gift of it, her husband would get to loathe her. She, dying, gave it me, and bade me, when my fate would have me marry, to give it to my wife. I did so; and take heed of it! Hold it most precious; to lose it or give it away were such calamity as nothing else could match.” “Is it possible?” faltered Desdemona. “’Tis true; there’s magic in the web of it: a sibyl, who numbered in the world two hundred years, sewed the work; the worms were hallowed that spun the silk, and it was dyed in mummy, which the skilful conserved of maidens’ hearts.” “Indeed! Is it true?” said Desdemona, getting more and more alarmed. “Most true. Therefore look to it well,” said Othello in a threatening manner.