Ben-Hur: A tale of the Christ
The third hour came, and still the people surged round the hill, held
to it by some strange attraction, with which, in probability, the night
in midday had much to do. They were quieter than in the preceding hour;
yet at intervals they could be heard off in the darkness shouting to
each other, multitude calling unto multitude. It was noticeable, also,
that coming now to the Nazarene, they approached his cross in silence,
took the look in silence, and so departed. This change extended even to
the guard, who so shortly before had cast lots for the clothes of the
crucified; they stood with their officers a little apart, more watchful
of the one convict than of the throngs coming and going. If he but
breathed heavily, or tossed his head in a paroxysm of pain, they were
instantly on the alert. Most marvellous of all, however, was the
altered behavior of the high-priest and his following, the wise men who
had assisted him in the trial in the night, and, in the victim’s face,
kept place by him with zealous approval. When the darkness began to
fall, they began to lose their confidence. There were among them many
learned in astronomy, and familiar with the apparitions so terrible in
those days to the masses; much of the knowledge was descended to them
from their fathers far back; some of it had been brought away at the
end of the Captivity; and the necessities of the Temple service kept it
all bright. These closed together when the sun commenced to fade before
their eyes, and the mountains and hills to recede; they drew together
in a group around their pontiff, and debated what they saw. “The moon
is at its full,” they said, with truth, “and this cannot be an
eclipse.” Then, as no one could answer the question common with them
all—as no one could account for the darkness, or for its occurrence at
that particular time, in their secret hearts they associated it with
the Nazarene, and yielded to an alarm which the long continuance of the
phenomenon steadily increased. In their place behind the soldiers, they
noted every word and motion of the Nazarene, and hung with fear upon
his sighs, and talked in whispers. The man might be the Messiah, and
then— But they would wait and see!
In the meantime Ben-Hur was not once visited by the old spirit. The
perfect peace abode with him. He prayed simply that the end might be
hastened. He knew the condition of Simonides’ mind—that he was
hesitating on the verge of belief. He could see the massive face
weighed down by solemn reflection. He noticed him casting inquiring
glances at the sun, as seeking the cause of the darkness. Nor did he
fail to notice the solicitude with which Esther clung to him,
smothering her fears to accommodate his wishes.
“Be not afraid,” he heard him say to her; “but stay and watch with me.
Thou mayst live twice the span of my life, and see nothing of human
interest equal to this; and there may be revelations more. Let us stay
to the close.”
When the third hour was about half gone, some men of the rudest
class—wretches from the tombs about the city—came and stopped in front
of the centre cross.
“This is he, the new King of the Jews,” said one of them.
The others cried, with laughter, “Hail, all hail, King of the Jews!”
Receiving no reply, they went closer.
“If thou be King of the Jews, or Son of God, come down,” they said,
loudly.
At this, one of the thieves quit groaning, and called to the Nazarene,
“Yes, if thou be Christ, save thyself and us.”
The people laughed and applauded; then, while they were listening for a
reply, the other felon was heard to say to the first one, “Dost thou
not fear God? We receive the due rewards of our deeds; but this man
hath done nothing amiss.”
The bystanders were astonished; in the midst of the hush which ensued,
the second felon spoke again, but this time to the Nazarene:
“Lord,” he said, “remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom.”
Simonides gave a great start. “When thou comest into thy kingdom!” It
was the very point of doubt in his mind; the point he had so often
debated with Balthasar.
“Didst thou hear?” said Ben-Hur to him. “The kingdom cannot be of this
world. Yon witness saith the King is but going to his kingdom; and, in
effect, I heard the same in my dream.”
“Hush!” said Simonides, more imperiously than ever before in speech to
Ben-Hur. “Hush, I pray thee! If the Nazarene should answer—”
And as he spoke the Nazarene did answer, in a clear voice, full of
confidence:
“Verily I say unto thee, To-day shalt thou be with me in Paradise!”
Simonides waited to hear if that were all; then he folded his hands and
said, “No more, no more, Lord! The darkness is gone; I see with other
eyes—even as Balthasar, I see with eyes of perfect faith.”
The faithful servant had at last his fitting reward. His broken body
might never be restored; nor was there riddance of the recollection of
his sufferings, or recall of the years embittered by them; but suddenly
a new life was shown him, with assurance that it was for him—a new life
lying just beyond this one—and its name was Paradise. There he would
find the Kingdom of which he had been dreaming, and the King. A perfect
peace fell upon him.
Over the way, in front of the cross, however, there were surprise and
consternation. The cunning casuists there put the assumption underlying
the question and the admission underlying the answer together. For
saying through the land that he was the Messiah, they had brought the
Nazarene to the cross; and, lo! on the cross, more confidently than
ever, he had not only reasserted himself, but promised enjoyment of his
Paradise to a malefactor. They trembled at what they were doing. The
pontiff, with all his pride, was afraid. Where got the man his
confidence except from Truth? And what should the Truth be but God? A
very little now would put them all to flight.
The breathing of the Nazarene grew harder, his sighs became great
gasps. Only three hours upon the cross, and he was dying!
The intelligence was carried from man to man, until every one knew it;
and then everything hushed; the breeze faltered and died; a stifling
vapor loaded the air; heat was superadded to darkness; nor might any
one unknowing the fact have thought that off the hill, out under the
overhanging pall, there were three millions of people waiting
awe-struck what should happen next—they were so still!
Then there went out through the gloom, over the heads of such as were
on the hill within hearing of the dying man, a cry of despair, if not
reproach:
“My God! my God! why hast thou forsaken me?”
The voice startled all who heard it. One it touched uncontrollably.
The soldiers in coming had brought with them a vessel of wine and
water, and set it down a little way from Ben-Hur. With a sponge dipped
into the liquor, and put on the end of a stick, they could moisten the
tongue of a sufferer at their pleasure. Ben-Hur thought of the draught
he had had at the well near Nazareth; an impulse seized him; catching
up the sponge, he dipped it into the vessel, and started for the cross.
“Let him be!” the people in the way shouted, angrily. “Let him be!”
Without minding them, he ran on, and put the sponge to the Nazarene’s
lips.
Too late, too late!
The face then plainly seen by Ben-Hur, bruised and black with blood and
dust as it was, lighted nevertheless with a sudden glow; the eyes
opened wide, and fixed upon some one visible to them alone in the far
heavens; and there were content and relief, even triumph, in the shout
the victim gave.
“It is finished! It is finished!”
So a hero, dying in the doing a great deed, celebrates his success with
a last cheer.
The light in the eyes went out; slowly the crowned head sank upon the
laboring breast. Ben-Hur thought the struggle over; but the fainting
soul recollected itself, so that he and those around him caught the
other and last words, spoken in a low voice, as if to one listening
close by:
“Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit.”
A tremor shook the tortured body; there was a scream of fiercest
anguish, and the mission and the earthly life were over at once. The
heart, with all its love, was broken; for of that, O reader, the man
died!
Ben-Hur went back to his friends, saying, simply, “It is over; he is
dead.”
In a space incredibly short the multitude was informed of the
circumstance. No one repeated it aloud; there was a murmur which spread
from the knoll in every direction; a murmur that was little more than a
whispering, “He is dead! he is dead!” and that was all. The people had
their wish; the Nazarene was dead; yet they stared at each other
aghast. His blood was upon them! And while they stood staring at each
other, the ground commenced to shake; each man took hold of his
neighbor to support himself; in a twinkling the darkness disappeared,
and the sun came out; and everybody, as with the same glance, beheld
the crosses upon the hill all reeling drunken-like in the earthquake.
They beheld all three of them; but the one in the centre was arbitrary;
it alone would be seen; and for that it seemed to extend itself
upwards, and lift its burden, and swing it to and fro higher and higher
in the blue of the sky. And every man among them who had jeered at the
Nazarene; every one who had struck him; every one who had voted to
crucify him; every one who had marched in the procession from the city;
every one who had in his heart wished him dead, and they were as ten to
one, felt that he was in some way individually singled out from the
many, and that if he would live he must get away quickly as possible
from that menace in the sky. They started to run; they ran with all
their might; on horseback, and camels, and in chariots they ran, as
well as on foot; but then as if it were mad at them for what they had
done, and had taken up the cause of the unoffending and friendless
dead, the earthquake pursued them, and tossed them about, and flung
them down, and terrified them yet more by the horrible noise of great
rocks grinding and rending beneath them. They beat their breasts and
shrieked with fear. His blood was upon them! The home-bred and the
foreign, priest and layman, beggar, Sadducee, Pharisee, were overtaken
in the race, and tumbled about indiscriminately. If they called on the
Lord, the outraged earth answered for him in fury, and dealt them all
alike. It did not even know wherein the high-priest was better than his
guilty brethren; overtaking him, it tripped him up also, and smirched
the fringing of his robe, and filled the golden bells with sand, and
his mouth with dust. He and his people were alike in the one thing at
least—the blood of the Nazarene was upon them all!
When the sunlight broke upon the crucifixion, the mother of the
Nazarene, the disciple, and the faithful women of Galilee, the
centurion and his soldiers, and Ben-Hur and his party, were all who
remained upon the hill. These had not time to observe the flight of the
multitude; they were too loudly called upon to take care of themselves.
“Seat thyself here,” said Ben-Hur to Esther, making a place for her at
her father’s feet. “Now cover thine eyes and look not up; but put thy
trust in God, and the spirit of yon just man so foully slain.”
“Nay,” said Simonides, reverently, “let us henceforth speak of him as
the Christ.”
“Be it so,” said Ben-Hur.
Presently a wave of the earthquake struck the hill. The shrieks of the
thieves upon the reeling crosses were terrible to hear. Though giddy
with the movements of the ground, Ben-Hur had time to look at
Balthasar, and beheld him prostrate and still. He ran to him and
called—there was no reply. The good man was dead! Then Ben-Hur
remembered to have heard a cry in answer, as it were, to the scream of