Ben Hur Lew Wallace (black male authors .TXT) 📖

of cloth of gold, and the hilt and scabbard of his sword made me dizzy with their splendor of precious stones. I thought Osiris had lent him a glory from the sun. I fear you have not entered upon your kingdom⁠—the kingdom I was to share with you.”

“The daughter of my wise guest is kinder than she imagines herself; she is teaching me that Isis may kiss a heart without making it better.”

Ben-Hur spoke with cold courtesy, and Iras, after playing with the pendent solitaire of her necklace of coins, rejoined, “For a Jew, the son of Hur is clever. I saw your dreaming Caesar make his entry into Jerusalem. You told us he would that day proclaim himself King of the Jews from the steps of the Temple. I beheld the procession descend the mountain bringing him. I heard their singing. They were beautiful with palms in motion. I looked everywhere among them for a figure with a promise of royalty⁠—a horseman in purple, a chariot with a driver in shining brass, a stately warrior behind an orbed shield, rivalling his spear in stature. I looked for his guard. It would have been pleasant to have seen a prince of Jerusalem and a cohort of the legions of Galilee.”

She flung her listener a glance of provoking disdain, then laughed heartily, as if the ludicrousness of the picture in her mind were too strong for contempt.

“Instead of a Sesostris returning in triumph or a Caesar helmed and sworded⁠—ha, ha, ha!⁠—I saw a man with a woman’s face and hair, riding an ass’s colt, and in tears. The King! the Son of God! the Redeemer of the world! Ha, ha, ha!”

In spite of himself, Ben-Hur winced.

“I did not quit my place, O prince of Jerusalem,” she said, before he could recover. “I did not laugh. I said to myself, ‘Wait. In the Temple he will glorify himself as becomes a hero about to take possession of the world.’ I saw him enter the Gate of Shushan and the Court of the Women. I saw him stop and stand before the Gate Beautiful. There were people with me on the porch and in the courts, and on the cloisters and on the steps of the three sides of the Temple there were other people⁠—I will say a million of people, all waiting breathlessly to hear his proclamation. The pillars were not more still than we. Ha, ha, ha! I fancied I heard the axles of the mighty Roman machine begin to crack. Ha, ha, ha! O prince, by the soul of Solomon, your King of the World drew his gown about him and walked away, and out by the farthest gate, nor opened his mouth to say a word; and⁠—the Roman machine is running yet!”

In simple homage to a hope that instant lost⁠—a hope which, as it began to fall and while it was falling, he unconsciously followed with a parting look down to its disappearance⁠—Ben-Hur lowered his eyes.

At no previous time, whether when Balthasar was plying him with arguments, or when miracles were being done before his face, had the disputed nature of the Nazarene been so plainly set before him. The best way, after all, to reach an understanding of the divine is by study of the human. In the things superior to men we may always look to find God. So with the picture given by the Egyptian of the scene when the Nazarene turned from the Gate Beautiful; its central theme was an act utterly beyond performance by a man under control of merely human inspirations. A parable to a parable-loving people, it taught what the Christ had so often asserted⁠—that his mission was not political. There was not much more time for thought of all this than that allowed for a common respiration; yet the idea took fast hold of Ben-Hur, and in the same instant he followed his hope of vengeance out of sight, and the man with the woman’s face and hair, and in tears, came near to him⁠—near enough to leave something of his spirit behind.

“Daughter of Balthasar,” he said, with dignity, “if this be the game of which you spoke to me, take the chaplet⁠—I accord it yours. Only let us make an end of words. That you have a purpose I am sure. To it, I pray, and I will answer you; then let us go our several ways, and forget we ever met. Say on; I will listen, but not to more of that which you have given me.”

She regarded him intently a moment, as if determining what to do⁠—possibly she might have been measuring his will⁠—then she said, coldly, “You have my leave⁠—go.”

“Peace to you,” he responded, and walked away.

As he was about passing out of the door, she called to him.

“A word.”

He stopped where he was, and looked back.

“Consider all I know about you.”

“O most fair Egyptian,” he said, returning, “what all do you know about me?”

She looked at him absently.

“You are more of a Roman, son of Hur, then any of your Hebrew brethren.”

“Am I so unlike my countrymen?” he asked, indifferently.

“The demigods are all Roman now,” she rejoined.

“And therefore you will tell me what more you know about me?”

“The likeness is not lost upon me. It might induce me to save you.”

“Save me!”

The pink-stained fingers toyed daintily with the lustrous pendant at the throat, and her voice was exceeding low and soft; only a tapping on the floor with her silken sandal admonished him to have a care.

“There was a Jew, an escaped galley-slave, who killed a man in the Palace of Idernee,” she began, slowly.

Ben-Hur was startled.

“The same Jew slew a Roman soldier before the Marketplace here in Jerusalem; the same Jew has three trained legions from Galilee to seize the Roman governor tonight; the same Jew has alliances perfected for war upon Rome, and Ilderim the Sheik is one of his partners.”

Drawing nearer him, she almost whispered,

“You have lived in Rome. Suppose these things repeated