I Am Not What I Am among them with rights to appear thus, in spectral apparition. They, too, were watching, waiting, knowing the inevitable conclusion as well as he did—and just as powerless to prevent it. He seemed to see Emilia in the hall, approaching. Then he must make haste; then weakness could no longer fetter strength. He lay strong hands on Desdemona’s lovely neck and squeezed, and murmured, “It is too late.” She kicked and fought until she kicked and fought no more. Now Emilia called from without, “What, ho! my lord, my lord!” “Who’s there?” Why did he ask, when he knew already? “O! good my lord,” she called, “I’d speak a word with you.” “‘Tis like she comes to speak of Cassio’s death,” he murmured. Why did he speak at all? Why loose his thoughts like pardoned enemies into the world, there to indict him? But he could not be silent. “If she come in, she’ll sure speak to my wife. 21 - Crimson Fog
My wife! my wife! what wife? I have no wife: O, insupportable! O heavy hour!” Finally he drew the bed’s curtain—so much velveteen shroud—and bid her enter. She came and spoke to him— to him—of murder. “O! my good lord, yonder’s foul murders done.” “What! now?” “But now, my lord.” “It is the very error of the