All the hours of that night Rizal spent in prayer, in reading, and in cheerful conversation with his guards and the priests. He did not sleep and had no need of sleep. But his wakefulness was not of his nerves. None of the watchers could detect a troubled look in his eyes or a quaver in the smooth, even tones of his voice. [221] Other men so counting out the last moments of their lives have been mercifully supplied with drugs and drink. The stimulus that sustained Rizal must have been from within. So have testified the witnesses. It was a beautiful morning, men still remember, calm, cool, and bright, “the bridal of the earth and sky,” typical of the sweet December weather in the Philippines; the air so clear the mountains on both sides stood out marvelously brown and rugged; so clear one could even make out far Corregidor on guard at the entrance of the bay. As day broke the crowds began to gather in the Luneta. Spaniards of the ruling caste predominated, come to see the death of their enemy and gloat over him; but also there were Filipinos with drawn brows and quivering lips, disquieting to look upon. [222] In many Filipino houses that last night there had been no sleep. Men and women prayed all night for the man about to be slaughtered for their sake. At seven o’clock the troopers came and tightly bound his arms behind his back. He wore a neat black suit with a sack-coat and a black hat. Outside, the trumpets sounded and the drums beat. The troopers placed him in the center of a strong guard. Then they led him forth from the prison door. With the drum always beating at the head of the band, thus he was marched almost a mile through scenes that had been familiar to him in his boyhood. Thirty-seven years and twenty-eight days before, another martyr had gone forth to his death with the same clear-souled, untroubled calm. “This is a beautiful country,” said John Brown, Osawatomie Brown, as with the sheriff he drove to the execution-place; “I never noticed it before.” With the same sense of drawing in for the last time the breath of God’s bounty to men, Rizal looked about him and spoke of the loveliness of the scene. “I used to walk here with my sweetheart,” said he, thinking of Leonora. Above the roofs he saw the Ateneo, where he had spent so many happy days. Since his time the buildings had been altered. “When were those two towers added?” he asked and observed the effect with a critical eye. All the way he went with head erect, unflushed cheek, unruffled mien, as one that goes forth to meet fair weather in the morning. By his side marched the Jesuit priests, his comforters and supporters, for he always remembered tenderly his days at the Ateneo. “We are going to Calvary,” he said to them. “My sufferings are little. The Savior suffered much. He was nailed to the cross. In an instant the bullets will end all my pain.” [223]