Quick death was to come to the central figure--the central figure of the
century's great and famous men. Over the rest hovered fates from which a
mother might pray kindly death to save her children in their infancy.
One was to wander with the stain of murder upon his soul, in frightful
physical pain, with a price upon his head and the curse of a world upon
his name, until he died a dog's death in a burning barn; the wife was to
pass the rest of her days in melancholy and madness; and one of the
lovers was to slay the other, and end his life a raving maniac.
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.
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