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 automatic moaning ceased, a look of unspeakable
peace came upon his worn features, and at twenty-two minutes after seven
he died.
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