Shocked out of his irritation completely, Roderigo burst into fresh tears upon the instant of attack. Where Emilia had wept out of shame, sorrow, and anger, there was only a piteous fear in Roderigo's sobs. Though he struggled where Emilia had not, his struggling did nothing to free him from Iago's hold.
It was a surprise to Roderigo that he should be treated thus, for Iago had professed himself his friend! Roderigo did not quite feel betrayed, for he recognized that Iago was the brain behind their revenge plan, the one who gave the orders. But certainly he felt bewildered, for he had never been wrested so cruelly in his life. He could feel his arm raised up with prickling agony; he felt Iago's foot raised to his shoulder as though he meant to squash him like a beetle. He heard words, though he could not expend the mental energy to comprehend them in such panic.
And then he was released-his face hit the pavement with a dreadful smash to the nose. As if he was already a dead man (for he nearly supposed that he was), Roderigo lay there with the rain pelting his back. The arm that Iago had seized-it was Roderigo's dominant one-felt strained at the very least, though his fear tricked him into feeling much more pain than that (and Roderigo had never been so great about the handling of pain in the first place). His whimpering was muffled now, as he blubbered into the dirty stones of the street, and he wondered if perhaps Iago might simply leave. He hoped so. He was too afraid to make his escape until Iago had left.