The speaker sat in his chair; there were the royal head, the bloodless face, the masterful air, under the influence of which visitors forgot the broken limbs and distorted body of the man. The full black eyes gazed out under the white brows steadily, but not sternly. A moment thus, then he crossed his hands upon his breast.
The action, taken with the salutation, could not be misunderstood, and was not.
“Simonides,” Ben-Hur answered, much moved, “the holy peace you tender is accepted. As son to father, I return it to you. Only let there be perfect understanding between us.”
Thus delicately he sought to put aside the submission of the merchant, and, in place of the relation of master and servant, substitute one higher and holier.
Simonides let fall his hands, and, turning to Esther, said, “A seat for the master, daughter.”
She hastened, and brought a stool, and stood, with suffused face, looking from one to the other—from Ben-Hur to Simonides, from Simonides to Ben-Hur; and they waited, each declining the superiority direction would imply. When at length the pause began to be embarrassing, Ben-Hur advanced, and gently took the stool from her, and, going to the chair, placed it at the merchant’s feet.
“I will sit here,” he said.
His eyes met hers—an instant only; but both were better of the look. He recognized her gratitude, she his generosity and forbearance.
Simonides bowed his acknowledgment.
“Esther, child, bring me the paper,” he said, with a breath of relief.