Francisco Pizarro, the conqueror of Peru, was an important force in early
Western history. However, he stained his hands again and again with
helpless blood. Selfishly he pursued his end both by fair means and foul.
When the last of the Incas, from the prison into which Pizarro had thrown
him to await death, offered a roomful of gold as his ransom, Pizarro
accepted the gold, but the promise of life and liberty was broken, and
the old man was led to his death.
One day as the conqueror sat at dinner, he was surprised by a group of
avengers and was struck down. As he lay dying, Pizarro dipped his finger
into the stream of lifeblood that flowed from him, drew with it the figure
of a cross upon the floor, and kissed it as he died.
A beautiful thing, it may perhaps be called, that the dying thoughts of a
great explorer and conqueror turned to the cross, and that his lips were
last pressed against its sacred image. But a life of cruelty is not atoned
for by kissing the picture of the emblem of love. Years of wrong are not
changed by one symbolic act of devotion at the last. The old Inca chief
and all the others who had met death at the point of Pizarro’s sword
remained in their graves, their rights and treasures unrestored. The fact
that their overcomer died kissing the cross was of no avail to them.
To kiss the cross at twilight will never take the place of playing the man
through the day. It is better to live, simply and nobly, the spirit and
principles of the cross for a single hour than to embrace its image for an
eternity. Peace and love are not symbols, but realities; and righteousness
is not shadow but substance. Simple fidelity in common ways far transcends
the one picturesque performance done when all the world is looking. It is
only the path of simple duty that leads to peace at last. He who would die
in the spirit of the cross must live there. The cross is truly pictured in
the life of true devotion, not with the blood of selfishness upon the
couch of death.