A bold, clarion reply came from within, so strong as to be heard at the house door: "Who are you, and what do you want with us?" Baker again urged: "We want you to deliver up your arms and become our prisoners." "But who are you?" hallooed the same strong voice. Baker.--"That makes no difference. We know who you are, and we want you. We have here fifty men, armed with carbines and pistols. You cannot escape." There was a long pause, and then Booth said: "Captain, this is a hard case, I swear. Perhaps I am being taken by my own friends." No reply from the detectives. Booth--"Well, give us a little time to consider." [Illustration: Garrett's House, Where Booth Died--Sketched by W. N. Walton, for "Harper's Weekly" for May 30th, 1865] Baker--"Very well. Take time." Here ensued a long and eventful pause. What thronging memories it brought to Booth, we can only guess. In this little interval he made the resolve to die. But he was cool and steady to the end. Baker, after a lapse, hailed for the last time. "Well, we have waited long enough; surrender your arms and come out, or we'll fire the barn." Booth answered thus: "I am but a cripple, a one-legged man. Withdraw your forces one hundred yard from the door, and I will come. Give me a chance for my life, captain. I will never be taken alive." Baker--"We did not come here to fight, but to capture you. I say again, appear, or the barn shall be fired." Then with a long breath, which could be heard outside, Booth cried in sudden calmness, still invisible, as were to him his enemies: "Well, then, my brave boys, prepare a stretcher for me." There was a pause repeated, broken by low discussions within between Booth and his associate, the former saying, as if in answer to some remonstrance or appeal, "Get away from me. You are a damned coward, and mean to leave me in my distress; but go, go. I don't want you to stay. I won't have _you_ stay." Then he shouted aloud: "There's a man inside who wants to surrender." Baker--"Let him come, if he will bring his arms." Here Harold, rattling at the door, said: "Let me out; open the door; I want to surrender." Baker--"Hand out your arms, then." Harold--"I have not got any." Baker--"You are the man that carried the carbine yesterday; bring it out." Harold--"I haven't got any." This was said in a whining tone, and with an almost visible shiver. Booth cried aloud, at this hesitation: "He hasn't got any arms; they are mine, and I have kept them." Baker--"Well, he carried the carbine, and must bring it out." Booth--"On the word and honor of a gentleman, he has no arms with him. They are mine, and I have got them."