seen the fellow, with a long red beard. One thing led to another, till your adjutant quitted me to make farther enquiries. I hastened hither and, as it was, arrived later than I ought.”

The narrator had not observed, that every trace of color had faded out of the Emperor’s cheeks. As he ceased speaking, Domitian sprang up and, without saying a word, rushed out of the triclinium and into his own apartments. An intolerable dread almost deprived him of breath;[6] he ran like a hunted deer from one room to another, now shaking his fists in impotent fury, and again stopping to look suspiciously round him on every side. In this wretched frame of mind he was found by Julia, who had been seriously ill ever since the return of Domitia. In spite of the Empress’s commands, she had not yet quitted the palace. She came in, fevered and pale, to implore protection against her haughty rival, who had threatened to turn her into the street. The palace servants had tried to stop her at the entrance to Domitian’s apartments, but she had thrust them aside with the strength of desperation. At the sound of footsteps Domitian started and turned round. She stood before him—young, lovely, wretched—the victim of his remorseless passion. But the sight of her, far from stirring his pity, roused him to foaming rage. Was it not she, the abandoned creature, who had brought down on him the wrath of the gods? Was it not for her sake, that his blood was to be shed, if the astrologer had prophesied truly? And he had prophesied only too truly! His own end had borne witness to the truth of his mission.

“Hussy!” yelled the Emperor. “Have you come to mock me? Are you plotting to murder me, that you come sneaking round me? It is your doing, and no one else is to blame if Caesar perishes in his blood...! Go, serpent! This very day quit Rome, or I will have you flogged through the gates.”

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.

At last three men were left in attendance on the Emperor: Clodianus, Parthenius, the high-chamberlain, and Norbanus, the general of the guard. This last was perhaps the only person, whom Domitian had received with politeness—indeed, so far as he was concerned, with marked attention. The tyrant, who, to every one else was cold and contemptuous, turned from time to time to the noble soldier with an engaging smile to assure him, half stammering, of his unaltered favor. The ruler of the world had altogether lost his command of himself.

“And you have found no trace, formed no guess?” he asked with a frightened glance in the general’s face. “Your efforts too, Clodianus, have been unsuccessful?”

“Alas, my lord and god! I have offered great rewards, I have bribed dozens of idlers—all in vain; and to crown our ill-luck, when the slaves burnt the pile intended for the astrologer’s body, they flung in, not merely the remains of Ascletario, but the dead hounds as well. Thus we lost the last clue to the discovery.”

“Let them be crucified! idiotic fools!” shrieked Caesar, trembling in every limb.

“They richly deserve it,” said Clodianus. “Still, I cannot comprehend the matter. The strange man, who suddenly appeared with the dogs, has suddenly vanished, as if the earth had swallowed him; and from among a knot of old women I heard a voice exclaim: ‘It is Ahasuerus!’”

“Ahasuerus!” shouted the Emperor, starting up. “Then have Ahasuerus advertised for.”

“Impossible,” replied Clodianus. “Ahasuerus is a boguey creature of the Nazarenes, a restless spirit that wanders over lands and seas. I only mentioned the fact, to show you the impression produced by the apparition. There was something supernatural and appalling in his