“The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree, Sing all a green willow! Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee, Sing willow, willow, willow; The fresh streams ran by her, and murmured her moans, Sing willow, willow, willow; Her salt tears fell from her, and softened the stones;-- Sing willow, willow, willow. “Sing all a green willow must be my garland; Let nobody blame him, his scorn I approve. “Nay, that’s not next. Hark! Who is it that knocks?” “It’s the wind,” said Emilia. Desdemona listened for a moment, then went on with her song. “I called my love false love; but what said he then? Sing willow, willow, willow;” Desdemona’s voice faltered and stopped. Emilia’s duties were done, and, bidding her good-night, Desdemona let her depart, and presently closed her sorrowful eyes in sleep. Now had come the moment that Othello had chosen for his dark deed. As he drew near and saw his beautiful young wife lying in all the calm repose of innocent slumber, for an instant his soul melted with pity and love, and, bending over her, he kissed her tenderly. But once more he hardened his heart by thinking of the cause that had led him to decide on such an act, and a fresh wave of jealous fury suddenly taking possession of him, he seized the pillows, and held them over Desdemona until life seemed extinct. There came a furious knocking at the door. Emilia’s voice was heard outside, demanding admittance. Othello paused to consider. “What’s best to do? If she come in, she’ll sure speak to my wife. My wife! my wife! What wife? I have no wife. O, insupportable! O, heavy hour!” And Othello with a heavy groan hid his face in his hands. Again came the knocking. “I do beseech you that I may speak with you, O good my lord.” Othello drew the curtains of the bed, and unlocked the door. Emilia, in great excitement, had come to bring the news of Roderigo’s death. As she was speaking, a strange sort of moan caught her attention. She knew her lady’s voice, and, rushing to the bed, tore aside the curtains. “Help! help, ho! Help! O lady, speak again! Sweet Desdemona! O sweet mistress, speak!” “A guiltless death I die,” murmured Desdemona. “O, who hath done this deed?” “Nobody; I myself. Farewell! Commend me to my kind lord. O, farewell!” And with a little sigh the gentle spirit passed away. Othello immediately declared that Desdemona had spoken falsely; it was he who had killed her. Emilia turned on him with bitterest rage and contempt, whereupon he began to explain his reasons for what he had done, saying that it was Iago who had revealed everything to him. Emilia could scarcely believe such a thing. She shouted lustily to rouse the alarm, and when, among others, Iago himself hurried in, she taxed him with what Othello had said. “I told him what I thought, and told no more than what he found himself was apt and true,” said Iago, brazenly. [Illustration: “I told him what I thought.”]