unconscious from
the first moment, but he breathed throughout the night, his gaunt face
scarcely paler than those of the sorrowing men around him. At twenty-two
minutes past seven in the morning he died. Secretary Stanton broke the
silence by saying, "Now he belongs to the ages."

Booth had done his work thoroughly. His principal accomplice had acted
with equal audacity and cruelty, but with less fatal result. Under
pretext of having a package of medicine to deliver, he forced his way
to the room of the Secretary of State, who lay ill, and attacked him,
inflicting three terrible knife wounds on his neck and cheek, wounding
also the Secretary's two sons, a servant, and a soldier nurse who tried
to overpower him. Finally breaking away, he ran downstairs, reached the
door unhurt, and springing upon his horse rode off. It was feared that
neither the Secretary nor his eldest son would live, but both in time
recovered.

Although Booth had been recognized by dozens of people as he stood
before the footlights brandishing his dagger, his swift horse soon
carried him beyond any hap-hazard pursuit. He crossed the Navy
Yard bridge and rode into Maryland, being joined by one of his
fellow-conspirators. A surgeon named Mudd set Booth's leg and sent him
on his desolate way. For ten days the two men lived the lives of hunted
animals. On the night of April 25 they were surrounded as they lay
sleeping in a barn in Caroline County, Virginia. Booth refused to
surrender. The barn was fired, and while it was burning he was shot by
Boston Corbett, a sergeant of cavalry. He lingered for about three
hours in great pain, and died at seven in the morning. The remaining
conspirators were tried by military commission. Four were hanged,
including the assailant of Secretary Seward, and the others were
sentenced to imprisonment for various lengths of time.

Upon the hearts of a people glowing with the joy of victory the news of
the President's death fell as a great shock. In the unspeakable calamity
the country lost sight of the great national successes of the past week;
and thus it came to pass that there was never any organized celebration
in the North over the downfall of the rebellion. It was unquestionably
best that it should be so. Lincoln himself would not have had it
otherwise, for he hated the arrogance of triumph. As it was, the South
could take no offense at a grief so genuine; and the people of that
section even shared, to a certain ex