In the midlight of the room were two persons—a man resting in a chair high-backed, broad-armed, and lined with pliant cushions; and at his left, leaning against the back of the chair, a girl well forward into womanhood. At sight of them Ben-Hur felt the blood redden his forehead; bowing, as much to recover himself as in respect, he lost the lifting of the hands, and the shiver and shrink with which the sitter caught sight of him—an emotion as swift to go as it had been to come. When he raised his eyes the two were in the same position, except the girl’s hand had fallen and was resting lightly upon the elder’s shoulder; both of them were regarding him fixedly.
“If you are Simonides, the merchant, and a Jew”—Ben-Hur stopped an instant—“then the peace of the God of our father Abraham upon you and—yours.”
The last word was addressed to the girl.
“I am the Simonides of whom you speak, by birthright a Jew,” the man made answer, in a voice singularly clear. “I am Simonides, and a Jew; and I return you your salutation, with prayer to know who calls upon me.”
Ben-Hur looked as he listened, and where the figure of the man should have been in healthful roundness, there was only a formless heap sunk in the depths of the cushions, and covered by a quilted robe of sombre silk. Over the heap shone a head royally proportioned—the ideal head of a statesman and conqueror—a head broad of base and domelike in front, such as Angelo would have modelled for Cæsar. White hair dropped in thin locks over the white brows, deepening the blackness of the eyes shining through them like sullen lights. The face was bloodless, and much puffed with folds, especially under the chin. In other words, the head and face were those of a man who might move the world more readily than the world could move him—a man to be twice twelve times tortured into the shapeless cripple he was, without a groan, much less a confession; a man to yield his life, but never a purpose or a point; a man born in armor, and assailable only through his loves. To him Ben-Hur stretched his hands, open and palm up, as he would offer peace at the same time he asked it.
“I am Judah, son of Ithamar, late head of the House of Hur, and a prince of Jerusalem.”
The merchant’s right hand lay outside the robe—a long, thin hand, articulate to deformity with suffering. It closed tightly; otherwise there was not the slightest expression of feeling of any kind on his part; nothing to warrant an inference of surprise or interest; nothing but this calm answer,
“The princes of Jerusalem, of the pure blood, are always welcome in my house; you are welcome. Give the young man a seat, Esther.”
The girl took an ottoman near by, and carried it to Ben-Hur. As she arose from placing the seat, their eyes met.
“The peace of our Lord with you,” she said, modestly. “Be seated and at rest.”