was spring in Washington--about
half-past ten of the evening of the 14th of April--Good Friday--the
first Eastertide of peace. The streets had been illuminated for victory,
and the gas jets were still blazing, while a young moon, climbing the
sky, was dimming their murky yellow with its cold pure light. Tenth
Street was packed from end to end by a silent mob. As a sponge cleans a
slate, so exhilaration had been wiped off their souls. On the porch of
Ford's Theatre some gaudy posters advertised Tom Taylor's comedy, Our
American Cousin, and the steps were littered with paper and orange peel
and torn fragments of women's clothes, for the exit of the audience had
been hasty. Lights still blazed in the building, for there was nobody to
put them out. In front on the side-walk was a cordon of soldiers.

Stanton elbowed his way through the throng to the little house, Mr.
Peterson's, across the street. The messenger from the War Department
had poured wild news into his ear,--wholesale murder, everybody--the
President--Seward--Grant. Incredulous he had hurried forth and the sight
of that huge still crowd woke fear in him. The guards at Mr. Peterson's
door recognised him and he was admitted. As he crossed the threshold he
saw ominous dark stains.

A kitchen candle burned below the hat-rack in the narrow hall, and
showed further stains on the oilcloth. From a room on the left hand came
the sound of women weeping.

The door at the end of the passage was ajar. It opened on a bare little
place, once perhaps the surgery of some doctor in small practice, but
now a bedroom. A door gave at the farther side on a tiny verandah, and
this and the one window were wide open. An oil lamp stood on a table by
the bed and revealed a crowd of people. A man lay on the camp-bed, lying
aslant for he was too long for it. A sheet covered his lower limbs, but
his breast and shoulders had been bared. The head was nearest to the
entrance, propped on an outjutting bolster.

A man was leaving whom Stanton recognised as Dr. Stone, the Lincoln
family physician. The doctor answered his unspoken question. "Dying," he
said. "Through the brain. The bullet is now below the left eye. He may
live for a few hours--scarcely the night."

Stanton moved to the foot of the bed like one in a dream. He saw that
Barnes, the Surgeon-General, sat on a deal chair on the left side,
holding the dying man's hand. Dr. Gurley, the minister, sat beside
the bed. He noted Sumner an