Ben-Hur: A tale of the Christ
the sound heard doubtless by the favorite camels of Job—_Ikh! ikh!_—the
signal to kneel. Slowly the animal obeyed, grunting the while. The
rider then put his foot upon the slender neck, and stepped upon the
sand.
CHAPTER II
The man as now revealed was of admirable proportions, not so tall as
powerful. Loosening the silken rope which held the kufiyeh on his head,
he brushed the fringed folds back until his face was bare—a strong
face, almost negro in color; yet the low, broad forehead, aquiline
nose, the outer corners of the eyes turned slightly upward, the hair
profuse, straight, harsh, of metallic lustre, and falling to the
shoulder in many plaits, were signs of origin impossible to disguise.
So looked the Pharaohs and the later Ptolemies; so looked Mizraim,
father of the Egyptian race. He wore the kamis, a white cotton shirt
tight-sleeved, open in front, extending to the ankles and embroidered
down the collar and breast, over which was thrown a brown woollen
cloak, now, as in all probability it was then, called the aba, an outer
garment with long skirt and short sleeves, lined inside with stuff of
mixed cotton and silk, edged all round with a margin of clouded yellow.
His feet were protected by sandals, attached by thongs of soft leather.
A sash held the kamis to his waist. What was very noticeable,
considering he was alone, and that the desert was the haunt of leopards
and lions, and men quite as wild, he carried no arms, not even the
crooked stick used for guiding camels; wherefore we may at least infer
his errand peaceful, and that he was either uncommonly bold or under
extraordinary protection.
The traveller’s limbs were numb, for the ride had been long and
wearisome; so he rubbed his hands and stamped his feet, and walked
round the faithful servant, whose lustrous eyes were closing in calm
content with the cud he had already found. Often, while making the
circuit, he paused, and, shading his eyes with his hands, examined the
desert to the extremest verge of vision; and always, when the survey
was ended, his face clouded with disappointment, slight, but enough to
advise a shrewd spectator that he was there expecting company, if not
by appointment; at the same time, the spectator would have been
conscious of a sharpening of the curiosity to learn what the business
could be that required transaction in a place so far from civilized
abode.
However disappointed, there could be little doubt of the stranger’s
confidence in the coming of the expected company. In token thereof, he
went first to the litter, and, from the cot or box opposite the one he
had occupied in coming, produced a sponge and a small gurglet of water,
with which he washed the eyes, face, and nostrils of the camel; that
done, from the same depository he drew a circular cloth, red-and
white-striped, a bundle of rods, and a stout cane. The latter, after
some manipulation, proved to be a cunning device of lesser joints, one
within another, which, when united together, formed a centre pole
higher than his head. When the pole was planted, and the rods set
around it, he spread the cloth over them, and was literally at home—a
home much smaller than the habitations of emir and sheik, yet their
counterpart in all other respects. From the litter again he brought a
carpet or square rug, and covered the floor of the tent on the side
from the sun. That done, he went out, and once more, and with greater
care and more eager eyes, swept the encircling country. Except a
distant jackal, galloping across the plain, and an eagle flying towards
the Gulf of Akaba, the waste below, like the blue above it, was
lifeless.
He turned to the camel, saying low, and in a tongue strange to the
desert, “We are far from home, O racer with the swiftest winds—we are
far from home, but God is with us. Let us be patient.”
Then he took some beans from a pocket in the saddle, and put them in a
bag made to hang below the animal’s nose; and when he saw the relish
with which the good servant took to the food, he turned and again
scanned the world of sand, dim with the glow of the vertical sun.
“They will come,” he said, calmly. “He that led me is leading them. I
will make ready.”
From the pouches which lined the interior of the cot, and from a willow
basket which was part of its furniture, he brought forth materials for
a meal: platters close-woven of the fibres of palms; wine in small
gurglets of skin; mutton dried and smoked; stoneless shami, or Syrian
pomegranates; dates of El Shelebi, wondrous rich and grown in the
nakhil, or palm orchards, of Central Arabia; cheese, like David’s
“slices of milk;” and leavened bread from the city bakery—all which he
carried and set upon the carpet under the tent. As the final
preparation, about the provisions he laid three pieces of silk cloth,
used among refined people of the East to cover the knees of guests
while at table—a circumstance significant of the number of persons who
were to partake of his entertainment—the number he was awaiting.
All was now ready. He stepped out: lo! in the east a dark speck on the
face of the desert. He stood as if rooted to the ground; his eyes
dilated; his flesh crept chilly, as if touched by something
supernatural. The speck grew; became large as a hand; at length assumed
defined proportions. A little later, full into view swung a duplication
of his own dromedary, tall and white, and bearing a houdah, the
travelling litter of Hindostan. Then the Egyptian crossed his hands
upon his breast, and looked to heaven.
“God only is great!” he exclaimed, his eyes full of tears, his soul in
awe.
The stranger drew nigh—at last stopped. Then he, too, seemed just
waking. He beheld the kneeling camel, the tent, and the man standing
prayerfully at the door. He crossed his hands, bent his head, and
prayed silently; after which, in a little while, he stepped from his
camel’s neck to the sand, and advanced towards the Egyptian, as did the
Egyptian towards him. A moment they looked at each other; then they
embraced—that is, each threw his right arm over the other’s shoulder,
and the left round the side, placing his chin first upon the left, then
upon the right breast.
“Peace be with thee, O servant of the true God!” the stranger said.
“And to thee, O brother of the true faith!—to thee peace and welcome,”
the Egyptian replied, with fervor.
The new-comer was tall and gaunt, with lean face, sunken eyes, white
hair and beard, and a complexion between the hue of cinnamon and
bronze. He, too, was unarmed. His costume was Hindostani; over the
skull-cap a shawl was wound in great folds, forming a turban; his body
garments were in the style of the Egyptian’s, except that the aba was
shorter, exposing wide flowing breeches gathered at the ankles. In
place of sandals, his feet were clad in half-slippers of red leather,
pointed at the toes. Save the slippers, the costume from head to foot
was of white linen. The air of the man was high, stately, severe.
Visvamitra, the greatest of the ascetic heroes of the Iliad of the
East, had in him a perfect representative. He might have been called a
Life drenched with the wisdom of Brahma—Devotion Incarnate. Only in his
eyes was there proof of humanity; when he lifted his face from the
Egyptian’s breast, they were glistening with tears.
“God only is great!” he exclaimed, when the embrace was finished.
“And blessed are they that serve him!” the Egyptian answered, wondering
at the paraphrase of his own exclamation. “But let us wait,” he added,
“let us wait; for see, the other comes yonder!”
They looked to the north, where, already plain to view, a third camel,
of the whiteness of the others, came careening like a ship. They
waited, standing together—waited until the new-comer arrived,
dismounted, and advanced towards them.
“Peace to you, O my brother!” he said, while embracing the Hindoo.
And the Hindoo answered, “God’s will be done!”
The last comer was all unlike his friends: his frame was slighter; his
complexion white; a mass of waving light hair was a perfect crown for
his small but beautiful head; the warmth of his dark-blue eyes
certified a delicate mind, and a cordial, brave nature. He was
bareheaded and unarmed. Under the folds of the Tyrian blanket which he
wore with unconscious grace appeared a tunic, short-sleeved and
low-necked, gathered to the waist by a band, and reaching nearly to the
knee; leaving the neck, arms, and legs bare. Sandals guarded his feet.
Fifty years, probably more, had spent themselves upon him, with no
other effect, apparently, than to tinge his demeanor with gravity and
temper his words with forethought. The physical organization and the
brightness of soul were untouched. No need to tell the student from
what kindred he was sprung; if he came not himself from the groves of
Athene’, his ancestry did.
When his arms fell from the Egyptian, the latter said, with a tremulous
voice, “The Spirit brought me first; wherefore I know myself chosen to
be the servant of my brethren. The tent is set, and the bread is ready
for the breaking. Let me perform my office.”
Taking each by the hand, he led them within, and removed their sandals
and washed their feet, and he poured water upon their hands, and dried
them with napkins.
Then, when he had laved his own hands, he said, “Let us take care of
ourselves, brethren, as our service requires, and eat, that we may be
strong for what remains of the day’s duty. While we eat, we will each
learn who the others are, and whence they come, and how they are
called.”
He took them to the repast, and seated them so that they faced each
other. Simultaneously their heads bent forward, their hands crossed
upon their breasts, and, speaking together, they said aloud this simple
grace:
“Father of all—God!—what we have here is of thee; take our thanks and
bless us, that we may continue to do thy will.”
With the last word they raised their eyes, and looked at each other in
wonder. Each had spoken in a language never before heard by the others;
yet each understood perfectly what was said. Their souls thrilled with
divine emotion; for by the miracle they recognized the Divine Presence.
CHAPTER III
To speak in the style of the period, the meeting just described took
place in the year of Rome 747. The month was December, and winter
reigned over all the regions east of the Mediterranean. Such as ride
upon the desert in this season go not far until smitten with a keen
appetite. The company under the little tent were not exceptions to the
rule. They were hungry, and ate heartily; and, after the wine, they
talked.
“To a wayfarer in a strange land nothing is so sweet as to hear his
name on the tongue of a friend,” said the Egyptian, who assumed to be
president of the repast. “Before us lie many days of companionship. It
is time we knew each other. So, if it be agreeable, he who came last
shall be first to speak.”
Then, slowly at first, like one watchful of himself, the Greek began:
“What I have to tell, my brethren, is so strange that I hardly know
where to begin or what I may with propriety speak. I do not yet
understand myself. The most I am sure of is that I am doing a Master’s
will, and that the service is a constant ecstasy. When I think of the
purpose I am sent to fulfil, there is in me a joy so inexpressible that
I know the will is God’s.”
The good man paused, unable to proceed, while the others, in sympathy
with his feelings, dropped their gaze.
“Far to the west of this,” he began again, “there is a land which may
never be forgotten; if only because the world is too much its debtor,
and because the indebtedness is for things that bring to men their
purest pleasures. I will say nothing of the arts, nothing of