“The procession of whites.”
“Mirabile!” cried Drusus, half rising. “We met a faction of whites, and they had a banner. But—ha, ha, ha!”
He fell back indolently.
“Cruel Drusus—not to go on,” said Messala.
“Scum of the desert were they, my Messala, and garbage-eaters from the Jacob’s Temple in Jerusalem. What had I to do with them!”
“Nay,” said Cecilius, “Drusus is afraid of a laugh, but I am not, my Messala.”
“Speak thou, then.”
“Well, we stopped the faction, and—”
“Offered them a wager,” said Drusus, relenting, and taking the word from the shadow’s mouth. “And—ha, ha, ha!—one fellow with not enough skin on his face to make a worm for a carp stepped forth, and—ha, ha, ha!—said yes. I drew my tablets. ‘Who is your man?’ I asked. ‘Ben-Hur, the Jew,’ said he. Then I: ‘What shall it be? How much?’ He answered, ‘A—a—’ Excuse me, Messala. By Jove’s thunder, I cannot go on for laughter! Ha, ha, ha!”
The listeners leaned forward.