audience, stupid at first with surprise, and wild afterward with
excitement and horror, two or three men jumped upon the stage in pursuit
of the assassin. But he ran through the familiar passages, leaped upon
his horse, rewarding with a kick and a curse the boy who held him, and
escaped into the night.

The President scarcely moved; his head drooped forward slightly, his
eyes closed. Major Rathbone, not regarding his own grievous hurt, rushed
to the door of the box to summon aid. He found it barred, and some one
on the outside beating and clamoring for admittance. It was at once seen
that the President's wound was mortal. A large derringer bullet had
entered the back of the head, on the left side, and, passing through the
brain, lodged just behind the left eye. He was carried to a house across
the street, and laid upon a bed in a small room at the rear of the hall
on the ground floor. Mrs. Lincoln followed, tenderly cared for by Miss
Harris. Rathbone, exhausted by loss of blood, fainted, and was taken
home. Messengers were sent for the cabinet, for the surgeon-general, for
Dr. Stone, Mr. Lincoln's family physician, and for others whose official
or private relations to the President gave them the right to be there. A
crowd of people rushed instinctively to the White House, and, bursting
through the doors, shouted the dreadful news to Robert Lincoln and Major
Hay, who sat together in an upper room. They ran down-stairs, and as
they were entering a carriage to drive to Tenth Street, a friend came up
and told them that Mr. Seward and most of the cabinet had been murdered.
The news seemed so improbable that they hoped it was all untrue; but, on
reaching Tenth Street, the excitement and the gathering crowds prepared
them for the worst. In a few moments those who had been sent for and
many others were assembled in the little chamber where the chief of the
state lay in his agony. His son was met at the door by Dr. Stone, who
with grave tenderness informed him that there was no hope.

The President had been shot a few minutes after ten. The wound would
have brought instant death to most men, but his vital tenacity was
remarkable. He was, of course, unconscious from the first moment; but he
breathed with slow and regular respiration throughout the night. As the
dawn came and the lamplight grew pale, his pulse began to fail; but his
face, even then, was scarcely more haggard than those of the sorrowing
men around him. His automat