For once the tribune was at loss, and hesitated. His power was ample. He was monarch of the ship. His prepossessions all moved him to mercy. His faith was won. Yet, he said to himself, there was no haste—or, rather, there was haste to Cythera; the best rower could not then be spared; he would wait; he would learn more; he would at least be sure this was the prince Ben-Hur, and that he was of a right disposition. Ordinarily, slaves were liars.
“It is enough,” he said aloud. “Go back to thy place.”
Ben-Hur bowed; looked once more into the master’s face, but saw nothing for hope. He turned away slowly, looked back, and said,
“If thou dost think of me again, O tribune, let it not be lost in thy mind that I prayed thee only for word of my people—mother, sister.”
He moved on.
Arrius followed him with admiring eyes.
“Perpol!” he thought. “With teaching, what a man for the arena! What a runner! Ye gods! what an arm for the sword or the cestus!—Stay!” he said aloud.
Ben-Hur stopped, and the tribune went to him.
“If thou wert free, what wouldst thou do?”
“The noble Arrius mocks me!” Judah said, with trembling lips.