After bidding good-by to his sister and making final disposition
regarding some personal property, the doomed man, under close guard,
walked calmly, even cheerfully, from Fort Santiago along the Malecon
to the Luneta, accompanied by his Jesuit confessors. Arrived there, he
thanked those about him for their kindness and requested the officer
in charge to allow him to face the firing-squad, since he had never
been a traitor to Spain. This the officer declined to permit, for
the order was to shoot him in the back. Rizal assented with a slight
protest, pointed out to the soldiers the spot in his back at which
they should aim, and with a firm step took his place in front of them.

Then occurred an act almost too hideous to record. There he stood,
expecting a volley of Remington bullets in his back--Time was, and
Life's stream ebbed to Eternity's flood--when the military surgeon
stepped forward and asked if he might feel his pulse! Rizal extended
his left hand, and the officer remarked that he could not understand
how a man's pulse could beat normally at such a terrific moment! The
victim shrugged his shoulders and let the hand fall again to his side
--Latin refinement could be no further refined!

A moment later there he lay, on his right side, his life-blood
spurting over the Luneta curb, eyes wide open, fixedly staring at
that Heaven where the priests had taught all those centuries agone
that Justice abides. The troops filed past the body, for the most
part silently, while desultory cries of "Viva Espana!" from among the
"patriotic" Filipino volunteers were summarily hushed by a Spanish
artillery-officer's stern rebuke: "Silence, you rabble!" To drown
out the fitful cheers and the audible murmurs, the bands struck
up Spanish national airs. Stranger death-dirge no man and system
ever had. Carnival revelers now dance about the scene and Filipino