The murderer seemed to himself to be taking part in a play.  Hate and brandy had for weeks kept his brain in a morbid state.  Holding a pistol in one hand and a knife in the other, he opened the box door, put the pistol to the President’s head, and fired.  Major Rathbone sprang to grapple with him, and received a savage knife wound in the arm.  Then, rushing forward, Booth placed his hand on the railing of the box and vaulted to the stage.  It was a high leap, but nothing to such an athlete.  He would have got safely away but for his spur catching in the flag that draped the front of the box.  He fell, the torn flag trailing on his spur; but, though the fall had broken his leg, he rose instantly and brandishing his knife and shouting, “Sic Semper Tyrannis!” fled rapidly across the stage and out of sight.  Major Rathbone called, “Stop him!” The cry rang out, “He has shot the President!” and from the 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.