“I offer you—”
“And I—”
“I—”
The person so warmly received was the respectable Jew, Ben-Hur’s fellow-voyager from Cyprus. He entered grave, quiet, observant. His robe was spotlessly white; so was the cloth of his turban. Bowing and smiling at the welcome, he moved slowly towards the central table. Arrived there, he drew his robe about him in a stately manner, took seat, and waved his hand. The gleam of a jewel on a finger helped him not a little to the silence which ensued.
“Romans—most noble Romans—I salute you!” he said.
“Easy, by Jupiter! Who is he?” asked Drusus.
“A dog of Israel—Sanballat by name—purveyor for the army; residence, Rome; vastly rich; grown so as a contractor of furnishments which he never furnishes. He spins mischiefs, nevertheless, finer than spiders spin their webs. Come—by the girdle of Venus! let us catch him!”
Messala arose as he spoke, and, with Drusus, joined the mass crowded about the purveyor.
“It came to me on the street,” said that person, producing his tablets, and opening them on the table with an impressive air of business, “that there was great discomfort in the palace because offers on Messala were going without takers. The gods, you know, must have sacrifices; and here am I. You see my color; let us to the matter. Odds first, amounts next. What will you give me?”
The audacity seemed to stun his hearers.