CHAPTER VII
When Ben-Hur left
the guest-chamber, there was not nearly so much life in his action as when he
entered it; his steps were slower, and he went along with his head quite upon
his breast. Having made discovery that a man with a broken back may yet have a
sound brain, he was reflecting upon the discovery.
Forasmuch as it
is easy after a calamity has befallen to look back and see the proofs of its
coming strewn along the way, the thought that he had not even suspected the
Egyptian as in Messala's interest, but had gone blindly on through whole years
putting himself and his friends more and more at her mercy, was a sore wound to
the young man's vanity. "I remember," he said to himself, "she
had no word of indignation for the perfidious Roman at the Fountain of
Castalia! I remember she extolled him at the boat-ride on the lake in the
Orchard of Palms! And, ah!" - he stopped, and beat his left hand violently
with his right -”ah! that mystery about the appointment she made with me at the
Palace of Idernee is no mystery now!"
The wound, it
should be observed, was to his vanity; and fortunately it is not often that
people die of such hurts, or even continue a long time sick. In Ben-Hur's case,
moreover, there was a compensation; for presently he exclaimed aloud,
"Praised be the Lord God that the woman took not a more lasting hold on
me! I see I did not love her."
Then, as if he
had already parted with not a little of the weight on his mind, he stepped
forward more lightly; and, coming to the place on the terrace where one
stairway led down to the court-yard below, and another ascended to the roof, he
took the latter and began to climb. As he made the last step in the flight he
stopped again.
"Can
Balthasar have been her partner in the long mask she has been playing? No, no.
Hypocrisy seldom goes with wrinkled age like that. Balthasar is a good
man."
With this decided
opinion he stepped upon the roof. There was a full moon overhead, yet the vault
of the sky at the moment was lurid with light cast up from the fires burning in
the streets and open places of the city, and the chanting and chorusing of the
old psalmody of Israel filled it with plaintive harmonies to which he could not
but listen. The countless voices bearing the burden seemed to say, "Thus,
O son of Judah, we prove our worshipfulness of the Lord God, and our loyalty to
the land he gave us. Let a Gideon appear, or a David, or a Maccabaeus, and we
are ready."
That seemed an
introduction; for next he saw the man of Nazareth.
In certain moods
the mind is disposed to mock itself with inapposite fancies.
The tearful
woman-like face of the Christ stayed with him while he crossed the roof to the
parapet above the street on the north side of the house, and there was in it no
sign of war; but rather as the heavens of calm evenings look peace upon
everything, so it looked, provoking the old question, What manner of man is he?
Ben-Hur permitted
himself one glance over the parapet, then turned and walked mechanically
towards the summer-house.
"Let them do
their worst," he said, as he went slowly on. "I will not forgive the
Roman. I will not divide my fortune with him, nor will I fly from this city of
my fathers. I will call on Galilee first, and here make the fight. By brave deeds
I will bring the tribes to our side. He who raised up Moses will find us a
leader, if I fail. If not the Nazarene, then some other of the many ready to
die for freedom."
The interior of
the summer-house, when Ben-Hur, slow sauntering, came to it, was murkily
lighted. The faintest of shadows lay along the floor from the pillars on the
north and west sides. Looking in, he saw the arm-chair usually occupied by
Simonides drawn to a spot from which a view of the city over towards the
Market-place could be best had.
"The good
man is returned. I will speak with him, unless he be asleep."
He walked in, and
with a quiet step approached the chair. Peering over the high back, he beheld
Esther nestled in the seat asleep - a small figure snugged away under her father's
lap-robe. The hair dishevelled fell over her face. Her breathing was low and
irregular. Once it was broken by a long sigh, ending in a sob. Something - it
might have been the sigh or the loneliness in which he found her - imparted to
him the idea that the sleep was a rest from sorrow rather than fatigue. Nature
kindly sends such relief to children, and he was used to thinking Esther
scarcely more than a child. He put his arms upon the back of the chair, and
thought.
"I will not
wake her. I have nothing to tell her - nothing unless - unless it be my love...
She is a daughter of Judah, and beautiful, and so unlike the Egyptian; for
there it is all vanity, here all truth; there ambition, here duty; there
selfishness, here self-sacrifice... Nay, the question is not do I love her, but
does she love me? She was my friend from the beginning. The night on the
terrace at Antioch, how child-like she begged me not to make Rome my enemy, and
had me tell her of the villa by Misenum, and of the life there! That she should
not see I saw her cunning drift I kissed her. Can she have forgotten the kiss!
I have not. I love her... They do not know in the city that I have back my
people. I shrank from telling it to the Egyptian; but this little one will
rejoice with me over their restoration, and welcome them with love and sweet
services of hand and heart. She will be to my mother another daughter; in
Tirzah she will find her other self. I would wake her and tell her these
things, but - out on the sorceress of Egypt! Of that folly I could not command
myself to speak. I will go away, and wait another and a better time. I will
wait. Fair Esther, dutiful child, daughter of Judah!"
He retired silently as he came.
CHAPTER VIII
The streets were
full of people going and coming, or grouped about the fires roasting meat, and
feasting and singing, and happy. The odor of scorching flesh mixed with the
odor of cedar-wood aflame and smoking loaded the air; and as this was the
occasion when every son of Israel was full brother to every other son of
Israel, and hospitality was without bounds, Ben-Hur was saluted at every step,
while the groups by the fires insisted, "Stay and partake with us. We are
brethren in the love of the Lord." But with thanks to them he hurried on,
intending to take horse at the khan and return to the tents on the Cedron.
To make the
place, it was necessary for him to cross the thoroughfare so soon to receive
sorrowful Christian perpetuation. There also the pious celebration was at its
height. Looking up the street, he noticed the flames of torches in motion
streaming out like pennons; then he observed that the singing ceased where the
torches came. His wonder rose to its highest, however, when he became certain
that amidst the smoke and dancing sparks he saw the keener sparkling of
burnished spear-tips, arguing the presence of Roman soldiers. What were they,
the scoffing legionaries, doing in a Jewish religious procession? The
circumstance was unheard of, and he stayed to see the meaning of it.
The moon was
shining its best; yet, as if the moon and the torches, and the fires in the
street, and the rays streaming from windows and open doors were not enough to
make the way clear, some of the processionists carried lighted lanterns; and
fancying he discovered a special purpose in the use of such equipments, Ben-Hur
stepped into the street so close to the line of march as to bring every one of
the company under view while passing. The torches and the lanterns were being
borne by servants, each of whom was armed with a bludgeon or a sharpened stave.
Their present duty seemed to be to pick out the smoothest paths among the rocks
in the street for certain dignitaries among them - elders and priests; rabbis
with long beards, heavy brows, and beaked noses; men of the class potential in
the councils of Caiaphas and Hannas. Where could they be going? Not to the
Temple, certainly, for the route to the sacred house from Zion, whence these
appeared to be coming, was by the Xystus. And their business - if peaceful, why
the soldiers?
As the procession
began to go by Ben-Hur, his attention was particularly called to three persons
walking together. They were well towards the front, and the servants who went
before them with lanterns appeared unusually careful in the service. In the
person moving on the left of this group he recognized a chief policeman of the
Temple; the one on the right was a priest; the middle man was not at first so
easily placed, as he walked leaning heavily upon the arms of the others, and
carried his head so low upon his breast as to hide his face. His appearance was
that of a prisoner not yet recovered from the fright of arrest, or being taken
to something dreadful - to torture or death. The dignitaries helping him on the
right and left, and the attention they gave him, made it clear that if he were
not himself the object moving the party, he was at least in some way connected
with the object - a witness or a guide, possibly an informer. So if it could be
found who he was the business in hand might be shrewdly guessed. With great
assurance, Ben-Hur fell in on the right of the priest, and walked along with
him. Now if the man would lift his head! And presently he did so, letting the
light of the lanterns strike full in his face, pale, dazed, pinched with dread;
the beard roughed; the eyes filmy, sunken, and despairing. In much going about
following the Nazarene, Ben-Hur had come to know his disciples as well as the
Master; and now, at sight of the dismal countenance, he cried out,
"The
'Scariot!"
Slowly the head
of the man turned until his eyes settled upon Ben-Hur, and his lips moved as if
he were about to speak; but the priest interfered.
"Who art
thou? Begone!" he said to Ben-Hur, pushing him away.
The young man
took the push good-naturedly, and, waiting an opportunity, fell into the
procession again. Thus he was carried passively along down the street, through
the crowded lowlands between the hill Bezetha and the Castle of Antonia, and on
by the Bethesda reservoir to the Sheep Gate. There were people everywhere, and
everywhere the people were engaged in sacred observances.
It being Passover
night, the valves of the Gate stood open. The keepers were off somewhere
feasting. In front of the procession as it passed out unchallenged was the deep
gorge of the Cedron, with Olivet beyond, its dressing of cedar and olive trees
darker of the moonlight silvering all the heavens. Two roads met and merged
into the street at the gate - one from the northeast, the other from Bethany.
Ere Ben-Hur could finish wondering whether he were to go farther, and if so,
which road was to be taken, he was led off down into the gorge. And still no
hint of the purpose of the midnight march.
Down the gorge
and over the bridge at the bottom of it. There was a great clatter on the floor
as the crowd, now a straggling rabble, passed over beating and pounding with
their clubs and staves. A little farther, and they turned off to the left in
the direction of an olive orchard enclosed by a stone wall in view from the
road. Ben-Hur knew there was nothing in the place but old gnarled trees, the
grass, and a trough hewn out of a rock for the treading of oil after the
fashion of the country. While, yet more wonder-struck, he was thinking what
could bring such a company at such an hour to a quarter so lonesome, they were
all brought to a standstill. Voices called out excitedly in front; a chill
sensation ran from man to man; there was a rapid falling-back, and a blind
stumbling over each other. The soldiers alone kept their order.
It took Ben-Hur
but a moment to disengage himself from the mob and run forward. There he found
a gateway without a gate admitting to the orchard, and he halted to take in the
scene.
A man in white
clothes, and bareheaded, was standing outside the entrance, his hands crossed
before him - a slender, stooping figure, with long hair and thin face - in an
attitude of resignation and waiting.
It was the
Nazarene!
Behind him, next
the gateway, were the disciples in a group; they were excited, but no man was
ever calmer than he. The torchlight beat redly upon him, giving his hair a tint
ruddier than was natural to it; yet the expression of the countenance was as
usual all gentleness and pity.
Opposite this
most unmartial figure stood the rabble, gaping, silent, awed, cowering - ready
at a sign of anger from him to break and run. And from him to them - then at
Judas, conspicuous in their midst - Ben-Hur looked - one quick glance, and the
object of the visit lay open to his understanding. Here was the betrayer, there
the betrayed; and these with clubs and staves, and the legionaries, were
brought to take him.
A man may not
always tell what he will do until the trial is upon him. This was the emergency
for which Ben-Hur had been for years preparing. The man to whose security he
had devoted himself, and upon whose life he had been building so largely, was
in personal peril; yet he stood still. Such contradictions are there in human
nature! To say truth, O reader, he was not entirely recovered from the picture
of the Christ before the Gate Beautiful as it had been given by the Egyptian;
and, besides that, the very calmness with which the mysterious person
confronted the mob held him in restraint by suggesting the possession of a
power in reserve more than sufficient for the peril. Peace and good-will, and
love and non-resistance, had been the burden of the Nazarene's teaching; would
he put his preaching into practice? He was master of life; he could restore it
when lost; he could take it at pleasure. What use would he make of the power
now? Defend himself? And how? A word - a breath - a thought were sufficient.
That there would be some signal exhibition of astonishing force beyond the
natural Ben-Hur believed, and in that faith waited. And in all this he was
still measuring the Nazarene by himself - by the human standard.
Presently the
clear voice of the Christ arose.
"Whom seek
ye?"
"Jesus of
Nazareth," the priest replied.
"I am
he."
At these simplest
of words, spoken without passion or alarm, the assailants fell back several
steps, the timid among them cowering to the ground; and they might have let him
alone and gone away had not Judas walked over to him.
"Hail,
master!"
With this
friendly speech, he kissed him.
"Judas,"
said the Nazarene, mildly, "betrayest thou the Son of man with a kiss? Wherefore
art thou come?"
Receiving no
reply, the Master spoke to the crowd again.
"Whom seek
ye?"
"Jesus of
Nazareth."
"I have told
you that I am he. If, therefore, you seek me, let these go their way."
At these words of
entreaty the rabbis advanced upon him; and, seeing their intent, some of the
disciples for whom he interceded drew nearer; one of them cut off a man's ear,
but without saving the Master from being taken. And yet Ben-Hur stood still!
Nay, while the officers were making ready with their ropes the Nazarene was
doing his greatest charity - not the greatest in deed, but the very greatest in
illustration of his forbearance, so far surpassing that of men.
"Suffer ye
thus far," he said to the wounded man, and healed him with a touch.
Both friends and
enemies were confounded - one side that he could do such a thing, the other
that he would do it under the circumstances.
"Surely he
will not allow them to bind him!"
Thus thought
Ben-Hur.
"Put up thy
sword into the sheath; the cup which my Father hath given me, shall I not drink
it?" From the offending follower, the Nazarene turned to his captors.
"Are you come out as against a thief, with swords and staves to take me? I
was daily with you in the Temple, and you took me not; but this is your hour,
and the power of darkness."
The posse plucked
up courage and closed about him; and when Ben-Hur looked for the faithful they
were gone - not one of them remained.
The crowd about
the deserted man seemed very busy with tongue, hand, and foot. Over their
heads, between the torch-sticks, through the smoke, sometimes in openings
between the restless men, Ben-Hur caught momentary glimpses of the prisoner.
Never had anything struck him as so piteous, so unfriended, so forsaken! Yet,
he thought, the man could have defended himself - he could have slain his
enemies with a breath, but he would not. What was the cup his father had given
him to drink? And who was the father to be so obeyed? Mystery upon mystery -
not one, but many.
Directly the mob
started in return to the city, the soldiers in the lead. Ben-Hur became
anxious; he was not satisfied with himself. Where the torches were in the midst
of the rabble he knew the Nazarene was to be found. Suddenly he resolved to see
him again. He would ask him one question.
Taking off his
long outer garment and the handkerchief from his head, he threw them upon the
orchard wall, and started after the posse, which he boldly joined. Through the
stragglers he made way, and by littles at length reached the man who carried
the ends of the rope with which the prisoner was bound.
The Nazarene was
walking slowly, his head down, his hands bound behind him; the hair fell
thickly over his face, and he stooped more than usual; apparently he was
oblivious to all going on around him. In advance a few steps were priests and
elders talking and occasionally looking back. When, at length, they were all
near the bridge in the gorge, Ben-Hur took the rope from the servant who had
it, and stepped past him.
"Master,
master!" he said, hurriedly, speaking close to the Nazarene's ear.
"Dost thou hear, master? A word - one word. Tell me -”
The fellow from
whom he had taken the rope now claimed it.
"Tell
me," Ben-Hur continued, "goest thou with these of thine own
accord?"
The people were
come up now, and in his own ears asking angrily, "Who art thou, man?"
"O
master," Ben-Hur made haste to say, his voice sharp with anxiety, "I
am thy friend and lover. Tell me, I pray thee, if I bring rescue, wilt thou
accept it?"
The Nazarene
never so much as looked up or allowed the slightest sign of recognition; yet
the something which when we are suffering is always telling it to such as look
at us, though they be strangers, failed not now. "Let him alone," it
seemed to say; "he has been abandoned by his friends; the world has denied
him; in bitterness of spirit, he has taken farewell of men; he is going he
knows not where, and he cares not. Let him alone."
And to that
Ben-Hur was now driven. A dozen hands were upon him, and from all sides there
was shouting, "He is one of them. Bring him along; club him - kill
him!"
With a gust of
passion which gave him many times his ordinary force, Ben-Hur raised himself,
turned once about with arms outstretched, shook the hands off, and rushed
through the circle which was fast hemming him in. The hands snatching at him as
he passed tore his garments from his back, so he ran off the road naked; and
the gorge, in keeping of the friendly darkness, darker there than elsewhere,
received him safe.
Reclaiming his
handkerchief and outer garments from the orchard wall, he followed back to the
city gate; thence he went to the khan, and on the good horse rode to the tents
of his people out by the Tombs of the Kings.
As he rode, he
promised himself to see the Nazarene on the morrow - promised it, not knowing
that the unfriended man was taken straightway to the house of Hannas to be
tried that night.
The heart the
young man carried to his couch beat so heavily he could not sleep; for now
clearly his renewed Judean kingdom resolved itself into what it was - only a
dream. It is bad enough to see our castles overthrown one after another with an
interval between in which to recover from the shock, or at least let the echoes
of the fall die away; but when they go altogether - go as ships sink, as houses
tumble in earthquakes - the spirits which endure it calmly are made of stuffs
sterner than common, and Ben-Hur's was not of them. Through vistas in the
future, he began to catch glimpses of a life serenely beautiful, with a home
instead of a palace of state, and Esther its mistress. Again and again through
the leaden-footed hours of the night he saw the villa by Misenum, and with his
little countrywoman strolled through the garden, and rested in the panelled
atrium; overhead the Neapolitan sky, at their feet the sunniest of sun-lands
and the bluest of bays.
In plainest
speech, he was entering upon a crisis with which to-morrow and the Nazarene
will have everything to do.
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