Hamilton was placed in bed on the lower floor of Bayard’s house; and, in spite of the laudanum that was liberally administered, his sufferings were almost intolerable.  His children were not admitted to the room for some time, but his wife could not be kept from him.  She knew nothing of the duel, but she saw that he was dying; and the suddenness and horror, the end of her earthly happiness, drove her frantic.  She shrieked and raved until Hamilton was obliged to rouse himself and attempt to calm her.  The children were huddled in the next room, and when the pain subsided for a time, they were brought in.  Hamilton’s eyes were closed.  When he was told that his children were beside his bed, he did not open them at once.  In those moments he forgot everything but the agony of parting.  Finally, he lifted his heavy eyelids.  The children stood there, the younger clinging to the older, shivering and staring in terror.  Hamilton gave them one look, then closed his eyes and did not open them again for several moments.  As the children were led from the room, one of the boys fainted.

Through Hamilton’s heavy brain an idea forced itself, and finally took possession.  Angelica had not stood in that little group.  He opened his eyes, half expecting that which he saw—­Angelica leaning over the foot-board, her face gray and shrunken, her eyes full of astonishment and horror.

“Are you going to die—­to die?” she asked him.

“Yes,” said Hamilton.  He was too exhausted to console or counsel submission.

“To die!” she repeated.  “To die!” She reiterated the words until her voice died away in a mumble.  Hamilton was insensible for the moment to the physical torments which were sending out their criers again, and watched her changed face with an apprehension, which, mercifully, his mind was too confused by pain and laudanum to formulate.  Angelica suddenly gripped the foot-board with such force that the bed shook; her eyes expanded with horror only, and she cowered as if a whip cracked above her neck.  Then she straightened herself, laughed aloud, and ran out of the room.  Hamilton, at the moment, was in the throes of an excruciating spasm, and was spared this final agony in his harsh and untimely death.  Angelica was hurried from the house to a private asylum.  She lived to be seventy-eight, but she never recovered her reason.

Meanwhile, the grounds without were crowded with the friends of the dying man,—­many of them old soldiers,—­who stood through the night awaiting the end.  Business in New York was entirely suspended.  The populace had arisen in fury at the first announcement on the bulletin boards, and Burr was in hiding lest he be torn to pieces.

Hamilton slept little, and talked to his wife whenever he succeeded in calming her.  Her mental sufferings nearly deprived her of health and reason; but she lived a half a century longer, attaining the great age of ninety-seven.  It was a sheltered and placid old age, warm with much devotion; her mind remained firm until the end.  Did the time come when she thought of Hamilton as one of the buried children of her youth?