President's box, sir, no one is permitted to enter." "I am a senator,"
responded the person, "Mr. Lincoln has sent for me." The attendant gave
way, and the young man passed into the box.

As he appeared at the door, taking a quick, comprehensive glance at the
interior, Major Rathbone arose. "Are you aware, sir," he said,
courteously, "upon whom you are intruding? This is the President's box,
and no one is admitted." The intruder answered not a word. Fastening his
eyes upon Mr. Lincoln, who had half turned his head to ascertain what
caused the disturbance, he stepped quickly back without the door.

Without this door there was an eyehole, bored it is presumed on the
afternoon of the crime, while the theater was deserted by all save a few
mechanics. Glancing through this orifice, John Wilkes Booth espied in a
moment the precise position of the President; he wore upon his wrinkling
face the pleasant embryo of an honest smile, forgetting in the mimic
scene the splendid successes of our arms for which he was responsible,
and the history he had filled so well.

The cheerful interior was lost to J. Wilkes Booth. He did not catch the
spirit of the delighted audience, of the flaming lamps flinging
illumination upon the domestic foreground and the gaily set stage. He
only cast one furtive glance upon the man he was to slay, and thrusting
one hand in his bosom, another in his skirt pocket, drew forth
simultaneously his deadly weapons. His right palm grasped a Derringer
pistol, his left a dirk.

Then, at a stride, he passed the threshold again, levelled his arm at
the President and bent the trigger.