The hapless girl drew herself up proudly. “This,” she cried, “to crown my misery. Are you not satisfied with having betrayed my youth, and poisoned my innocence? Is this the compensation for a life of horror?” “Silence! It is a lie! It was your own vanity, that ruined you--your ambition, hoping to share a throne. Out of my sight, I say--you have no one to blame but yourself.” “Miserable coward! Are you frightened by the forecast of a soothsayer? Well, your fate will overtake you; but not for my sake--no; for the sake of Rome!” “Go ...” shrieked Domitian, “or I shall kill you!” “Well then, kill me. Add the crowning stroke to all your crimes! What do I care? I do not ask to stay in this world of misery and infamy, or in this proud Empire of Rome whose Emperor is an executioner.” At this instant the slaves, who were waiting in the anteroom, heard a dull sound as of a blow or push, a piercing scream, and a heavy fall, and the next moment Domitian called out in a hoarse, choked voice: “Phaeton!” When the slave entered the room, Julia was senseless on the floor.[7] She was lying doubled up in a convulsed attitude, and her face was livid rather than pale. “Carry her away,” said Caesar; “she is ill.” The senseless girl was carried away, and that same day she died of an internal injury. Domitian spent a terrible night. In the course of the third vigil he sent an express to Norbanus, the general of the Praetorian Guard. For hours he sat up in torment on his couch, making his slaves sing to the lute. Now and again he asked for a weapon, or for drink, or sent all the attendants out of the room excepting Phaeton, his favorite slave, who was to bar the door, and guard it sword in hand. At last the day broke. It was Domitian’s birthday, the 24th of October.[8] During the first hour after sunrise the usual ceremonious reception took place of magistrates, senators, and knights.[9] Outside the palace there was a scene of confusion, such as was rarely seen even in Rome. All the suburbs seemed to have emptied themselves, and the people to have converged on the Forum. Instead of one cohort of the praetorian guard, two had been posted on guard, and the sentinels at the palace gates were also doubled. The officials, whose business it was to check the admission of visitors, straightly enquired of each individual as he crossed the threshold of the audience chamber, whether he had any weapon about him. It was many years since this had last been done, and the effect was paralyzing. Domitian received the senators, not merely with reserve, but with evident repugnance, nor did he bestow on one of those who attended the customary honor of a kiss. A dull atmosphere of suspicion brooded like a vapor, and seemed to fill the splendidly-decorated room.[10] As the last visitors retired from the presence, it was rather like an escape or a flight. _Atra cura_, as sung by Horatius Flaccus,[11] seemed to have flung her dark robe over the palace.