“O Father, how terrible it is to die! How one suffers! Father, I forgive every one from the bottom of my heart; I have no resentment against any one: believe me, your reverence!” The next instant the spasm had passed. The will with which he had ruled himself so long came back to its accustomed empire. He was himself again and stood erect, with no twitching of his lips and no fear in his eyes. The executioners marched upon the field. Rizal shook hands firmly with the priests and with his counsel. Father March held to him the cross for him to kiss. He now turned his face to the east and stood with his back to the firing-squad. Eight native soldiers had been told off to slay their fellow-countryman. Behind them were eight Spanish soldiers with leveled rifles. They were to shoot the executioners if these failed to obey orders. Rizal stood with his eyes open and turned toward the sky. In his face, it is said, was neither ecstasy nor fear, but only the calm of a perfect resignation. Often he had said: “What is death to me? I have sown the seed; others are left to reap.” [225] The testing of that word had come. It found him ready and undismayed. At that instant a military doctor, amazed by such a show of fortitude, ran out from the line of officers. “Colleague,” he cried, “may I feel your pulse?” Rizal said nothing but thrust his right hand as far as he could from the bands that held it. The pulse was hardly a beat above normal. “You are well, colleague,” said the doctor, “very well!” and stepped back to his place. Rizal made no response and resumed his former attitude. He now twisted his right hand and indicated the spot in his back at which the soldiers should aim. The captain gave the signal. The eight soldiers fired together. The body of Rizal was seen to waver and fall. With a last effort of his indomitable will, even in falling he turned so that he should lie with face upward. [226] In the thirty-sixth year of his age and the twenty-fourth year of his service—poet, patriot, and martyr. Cheers and laughter arose from the crowd as his blood was seen to be pouring upon the field. Women waved their handkerchiefs and clapped their hands; men shouted with delight. This was the end of him that had unveiled to the world the realities of their social order; that had ridiculed all their structure of rank and caste. He had died like a dog before them. The band played the national anthem. “Viva España!” shouted the crowd. A photographer made pictures of the scene. It was a great day for Spain. Her supremacy in the Philippines was approved and established for ever. For whomsoever thereafter might venture to question its righteousness, the same fate. Let him also die like a dog to the applause and laughter of the existing order, rock-rooted and eternal.