Conger now came around the corner of the barn and asked Baker if he was ready. Baker nodded, and Conger stepped noiselessly back, drew a handful of corn-blades through a crack in the barn, scratched a match, and in a moment the whole interior of the barn was brilliant with light. Baker opened the door and peered in. Booth had been leaning against the mow, but he now sprang forward, half blinded by the sudden glare of fire, his crutches under his arms and his carbine leveled in the direction of the flames as if he would shoot the man who had set them going. But he could not see into the darkness outside. He hesitated, then reeled forward again. An old table was near at hand. He caught hold of it as though to cast it top down on the fire, but he was not quick enough. Dropping one crutch, he hobbled toward the door. About the middle of the barn he stopped, drew himself up to his full height, and seemed to take in the entire situation. His hat was gone, and his wavy, dark hair was tossed back from his high white forehead; his lips were firmly compressed, and, if he was pale, the ruddy glow of the fire-light concealed that fact. In his full, dark eyes there was an expression of mingled hatred, terror, and the defiance of a tiger hunted to his lair. In one hand he held a carbine, in the other a revolver, and his belt contained another revolver and a bowie-knife. He seemed prepared to fight to the end, no matter what numbers opposed him. By this time the flames in the dry corn-blades had mounted to the rafters of the dingy old building, arching the hunted assassin in a glow of fire more brilliant than the lighting of any theater in which he had ever played. And for once in his life, J. Wilkes Booth was a great actor. He was in the last scene of his last play. The curtain soon would drop.

Suddenly Booth threw aside his remaining crutch, dropped his carbine, raised his revolver, and made a spring for the door.

It was his evident intention to shoot down any one who might bar his way, and make a dash for liberty, fighting as he ran.

There came a shock that sounded above the roar of the flames. Booth leaped in the air and pitched forward on his face. Baker was upon him in an instant, grasping both his arms to prevent the use of the revolver. But this precaution was entirely unnecessary. Booth would struggle no more. Another moment and Conger and the soldiers came rushing in. Baker turned the wounded man over and felt for his heart.

"He must have shot himself," said Conger.

"No," replied Baker; "I saw him every moment after the fire was lighted. The man who did do the shooting goes back to Washington in irons for disobedience of orders.'

In the excitement that followed the firing of the barn, Sergeant Boston Corbett,* an eccentric character who had accompanied the cavalry detachment, had stolen up to the side of the barn, placed his revolver to the crack between two boards, and just as Booth was about to spring through the doorway, had fired the fatal shot. He afterward told Lieutenant Baker that he knew Booth's movement meant death either for him (Baker) or for Booth.

Booth's body was caught up and carried out of the barn and laid under an apple

* Corbett was a most eccentric character. He was born

in London, England, in 1832, and came to this country when he was seven years old. He became a hat finisher by trade, wandering about the country from city to city and having no permanent home. While in Boston he joined the Methodist Church, and when he was baptized he took the name of Boston, in honor of the city of his conversion. He enlisted in the Twelfth New York state militia, but was continually in trouble with his superior officers because he persisted in following the dictates of his conscience rather than Square the colonel commanding found occasion to swear at military orders. One day at dress parade in Franklin the regiment for something that displeased him. Corbett at once stepped from the ranks and, with a salute, said: "Colonel, do you know you are breaking God's law?"

At the close of his first period of enlistment as a soldier in the war of the rebellion, he made up his mind that his time expired at midnight on a certain day. He gave due notice that he would leave at that time, but no attention was paid to his vagaries and he was detailed on picket duty. At midnight he left his post and hurried away to make preparations for his departure. He was arrested, court-martialed, and sentenced to be shot for deserting his post in the face of the enemy. But his colonel made an appeal to President Lincoln, who heard the case patiently, inquired into Corbett's general character, and pardoned the man who was to

slay his assassin.

After Corbett had shot Booth, and just as day was breaking, he was crossing the lawn in front of Garrett's house. Conger hailed him, and demanded the reason why he had fired against orders. Corbett took the position of a soldier, saluted, and pointed heavenward.

"God Almighty directed me," he said.

"Well," was Conger's answer as he turned away, "I

guess He did, or you couldn't have hit Booth through that

crack in the barn.'

"Tell mother-tell mother-" he faltered, and then became unconscious again. The flames of the burning barn now grew so intense that it was necessary to remove the dying man to the piazza of the house, where he was laid on a mattress provided by Mrs. Garrett. A cloth wet in brandy was applied to his lips, and under its influence he revived a little. Then he opened his eyes and said with deep bitterness: "Oh, kill me, kill me quick."

With a feeling of pity and tenderness, Baker lifted the limp hand, but it fell back again as if dead at his side. Booth seemed conscious of the movement; he turned his eyes and muttered hopelessly:

"Useless-useless "-and he was dead. When his collar was removed it was found that the bullet had struck the assassin under the ear, in almost the exact location that his own had struck the President. The great nerve of the spinal column had been severed, resulting in instant paralysis of the entire body below the wound.

About twenty minutes before Booth's death, Conger had started for Washington, taking with him Booth's arms, his diary, and other articles found on his person. While the Garretts were preparing breakfast for the hungry men, Booth's body was wrapped in a saddle blanket and the blanket stoutly sewed together. The body was then placed in an ancient and decrepit market wagon owned by an old colored man, who had been forced into the service somewhat against his will. Without waiting for breakfast, Baker, accompanied by a corporal, set out over the road for Belle Plaine, the negro driving the old horse as rapidly as he could. The cavalry guard was left to follow with Herold and the other prisoners. After crossing the Rappahan

"Dis am all right, massa, was the response. "Ah done gone been long dis yar road many an' many a time befoh de wah, an' ah'm jesh sure dis am de shortes road to Belle Plaine.

Baker sent his orderly back to inform Doherty what road he had taken, and instructing him to come on at once. But no cavalry appeared. They met few teams, and the road grew wilder and more forbidding. Presently straggling bands of men in Confederate uniform appeared, riding dejectedly southward.

'What have you got there?" one of them called out; "a dead Yank?” "Yes," Baker replied, laughing. This seemed to satisfy the questioner, and he passed on with a jest.

It had now grown hot and dusty, and Baker feared that Doherty's men had been attacked and routed and that he might be overtaken at any moment, and Booth's body re-captured. He was unnerved with loss of sleep and hunger, having been nearly three days in the saddle without rest. He was alone in an enemy's country, he had lost his way, and the responsibility he had assumed weighed heavily upon him. The old horse was worn out with the rough journey, and it was difficult to get him up the sand-hills with his load. But Baker dared not stop for rest or food.

On one of the hardest hills the king-bolt of the rickety old wagon gave out with a snap; the front of the box dropped down, and Booth's body lurched heavily forward. The big letters "U.S." on the blanket were wet with the assassin s blood, which had also trickled down over the axle and dribbled for miles along the road. The negro driver crawled under the wagon to repair the break, and some of the blood fell on his hand. He sprang back, shrinking in terror.

"Oh," he groaned. "It will neber, neber wash off. It am de blood ob a murderer."

So horrified was he that he tried to leave his burden, wagon, horse, and all, and escape through the woods, but Baker forced him to continue on the journey. After thirty miles of heat and dust, up hill and down, they crept over the top of a sandy knoll, and Baker saw the blessed blue of the Potomac glimmering through

the trees. It was just twilight, and the tinkle of cow-bells came up drowsily from the river-bank. Booth's body, wrapped in blue, was now gray with dust.

Reaching the water's edge, Baker could find no trace of dock or steamer. Sometime during the war the government had changed the landing from its old location known to the negro, to a point nearly a mile further up the river. They could see the "John S. Ide" lying at the wharf, but they had no boat with which to reach it. To shout might bring the marauding enemy sooner than friends. With the help of the negro, Baker bore the body down to the river and hid it under a clump of willows. Securing a promise from the old driver that he would remain and watch faithfully, Baker started back, a distance of over two miles by the road, never sparing his jaded horse until he reached the tug. Doherty's command was already there. Baker asked the corporal whom he had sent back why he did not return to him, and he said that Doherty would not allow him to.

A small boat from the tug was lowered, and with two of the crew to row, Baker soon reached the upper landing. The negro was found still on watch, faithful to his trust. The body was placed in the boat, and, a few minutes later, it was hoisted to the deck of the "John S. Ide." Baker saw it properly under guard, and then sank in a stupor of sleep on the deck. Three hours later the "John S. Ide" was met by another tug, having on board Colonel L. C. Baker; General T. T. Eckert, Assistant Secretary of War; Surgeon-General Barnes, and others.

On reaching Washington the body was removed to the gunboat "Saugatuck," which lay at anchor in the navy yard, and there the autopsy and the inquest were held.

The horse which Lieutenant Baker rode bore the name of Buckskin.' He lived to be twenty-nine years of age,

dying in 1887 at Lansing, Michigan. His body was presented to the State, was mounted, and is now on exhibition in the museum of the Michigan Agricultural College, near Lansing.

+ This is the order which Secretary Stanton gave Colonel Baker:

WAR DEPARTMENT, WASHINGTON, April 26th. TO THE COMMANDANT OF THE WASHINGTON NAVY YARD:

Let Colonel Baker come into the Navy Yard wharf and alongside the ironclad, to place one or two prisoners on

board.

Conger had brought the news of the capture to Washington many hours before, and every town in the country was ringing with the tidings. The moment the evidences of Booth's death-the diary, two revolvers, the carbine, the belt, and the compass-were placed in Colonel Baker's hands, he carried them to the office of the Secretary of War.

"I rushed into the room," relates Colonel Baker, "and said,, 'We have got Booth.' Secretary Stanton was distinguished during the whole war for his coolness, but I never saw such an exhibition of it in my life as at that time. He put his hands over his eyes and lay for nearly a minute without saying a word. Then he got up, put on his coat, and inquired how the capture had come about."

Immediately on his return Lieutenant Baker was called to the office of Secretary Stanton, where he related the story of the capture. Mr. Stanton had Booth's carbine, and when the narrative was finished, he handed it to Baker with the question,

"Are you accustomed to using a carbine? If so, what is the matter with this one? It cannot be discharged.”

Baker examined the weapon, and found that a cartridge had slipped out of position so that when the lever was worked it could not be thrown under the hammer. Perhaps it was for this reason that Booth cast it aside in the barn. It was a part of the ill luck that followed the assassin and every one with whom he came in contact from the moment he fired the fatal shot at President Lincoln.

Late in the afternoon of the second day after Booth's body was brought to Washington (April 28th) Colonel Baker received orders to dispose of the body in the way that seemed best to him, so that Booth's Confederate friends might never get it. Taking Lieutenant Baker with him, he started at once for the navy yard, stopping on the way at the old penitentiary prison. They reached the ironclad on which Booth's body reposed just as twilight was deepening into night. The body was sewn again in its bloody winding-sheet and lowered into a small rowboat. Hundreds of people stood watching on the shore, knowing that it was Booth's body,

and determined to ascertain what was to be

secreted in a barn. The barn was fired. Booth, in making his escape, was killed and Herold captured. Booth's body and Herold are now here. They crossed the Potomac Saturday night or Sunday night. Their horses were left in the swamp and should be secured; also all persons who aided their concealment.

EDWIN M. STANTON, Secretary of War.

Viscount Anne de St. Ives, under the name of Champdivers, while held a prisoner of war in Edinburgh Castle, attracts the attention and sympathy of an aristocratic Scotch maiden, Flora Gilchrist, who, out of curiosity, visits the prisoners, attended by her brother Ronald. On her account St. Ives kills a comrade, Goguelat, in a duel, fought secretly in the night, with the divided blades of a pair of scissors. An officer of the prison, Major Chevenix, with whom St. Ives is in social relations, discovers the secret of the duel and of St. Ives's interest in the young lady; and while at present he respects it, there are intimations that it might be

in safer keeping. St. Ives now receives a mysterious visitor, Daniel Romaine, the solicitor of his rich uncle, the Count de Keroual. Romaine informs him that his cousin, Alain de St. Ives, who has hitherto been regarded as the uncle's heir, is out of favor, and urges him, if possible, to escape from prison, in order to pay his uncle, now near dying, a visit. Romaine also suggests that, in order to make good his flight, after stealing from the prison, he present himself in the guise of his cousin Alain, whom he closely resembles, to one Burchell Fenn, who may be of help; and on leaving, he puts in his hand a purse of money.

THE

CHAPTER V.

ST. IVES IS SHOWN A HOUSE.

HE lawyer was scarce gone before I remembered many omissions; and chief among these, that I had neglected to get Mr. Burchell Fenn's address. Here was an essential point neglected; and I ran to the head of the stairs to find myself already too late. The lawyer was beyond my view; in the archway that led downward to the castle gate, only the red coat and the bright arms of a sentry glittered in the shadow, and I could but return to my place upon the ramparts.

I am not very sure that I was properly entitled to this corner. But I was a high favorite; not an officer, and scarce a private, in the castle would have turned me back, except upon a thing of moment; and whenever I desired to be solitary, I was

suffered to sit here behind my piece of cannon unmolested. The cliff went down before me almost sheer, but mantled with a thicket of climbing trees. From farther down, an outwork raised its turret; and across the valley I had a view of that long terrace of Princes Street, which serves as a promenade to the fashionable inhabitants of Edinburgh. A singularity in a military prison, that it should command a view on the chief thoroughfare!

It is not necessary that I should trouble you with the train of my reflections, which turned upon the interview I had just concluded and the hopes that were now opening before me. What is more essential, my eye (even while I thought) kept following the movement of the passengers on Princes Street, as they passed briskly to and fro-met, greeted, and bowed to each other-or entered and left the shops, which are in that quarter, and for a town of the