ie."

"Who did it?" cried Emilia; and the voice said, "Nobody--I myself.
Farewell!"

"'Twas I that killed her," said Othello.

He poured out his evidence by that sad bed to the people who came
running in, Iago among them; but when he spoke of the handkerchief,
Emilia told the truth.

And Othello knew. "Are there no stones in heaven but thunderbolts?" he
exclaimed, and ran at Iago, who gave Emilia her death-blow and fled.

But they brought him back, and the death that came to him later on was a
relief from torture.

They would have taken Othello back to Venice to try him there, but he
escaped them on his sword. "A word or two before you go," he said to the
Venetians in the chamber. "Speak of me as I was--no better, no worse.
Say I cast away the pearl of pearls, and wept with these hard eyes; and
say that, when in Aleppo years ago I saw a Turk beating a Venetian, I
took him by the throat and smote him thus."

With his own hand he stabbed himself to the heart; and ere he died his
lips touched the face of Desdemona with despairing love.

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW

There lived in Padua a gentleman named Baptista, who had two fair
daughters. The eldest, Katharine, was so very cross and ill-tempered,
and unmannerly, that no one ever dreamed of marrying her, while her
sister, Bianca, was so sweet and pretty, and pleasant-spoken, that more
than one suitor asked her father for her hand. But Baptista said the
elder daughter must marry first.

So Bianca's suitors decided among themselves to try and get some one to
marry Katharine--and then the father could at least be got to listen to
their suit for Bianca.

A gentleman from Verona, named Petruchio, was the one they thought
of, and, half in jest, they asked him if he would marry Katharine, the
disagreeable scold. Much to their surprise he said yes, that was just
the sort of wife for him, and if Katharine were handsome and rich, he
himself would undertake soon to make her good-tempered.

Petruchio began by asking Baptista's permission to pay court to his
gentle daughter Katharine--and Baptista was obliged to own that she
was anything but gentle. And just then her music master rushed in,
complaining that the naughty girl had broken her lute over his head,
because he told her she was not playing correctly.

"Never mind," said Petruchio, "I love her better than ever, and long to
have some chat with her."

When Katharine came, he said, "Good-morrow, Kate--for t