“And Messala—yes, he is in number two.”
“The Corinthian—”
“Watch the white! See, he crosses over, he stops; number one it is—number one on the left.”
“No, the black stops there, and the white at number two.”
“So it is.”
These gate-keepers, it should be understood, were dressed in tunics colored like those of the competing charioteers; so, when they took their stations, everybody knew the particular stall in which his favorite was that moment waiting.
“Did you ever see Messala?” the Egyptian asked Esther.
The Jewess shuddered as she answered no. If not her father’s enemy, the Roman was Ben-Hur’s.
“He is beautiful as Apollo.”
As Iras spoke, her large eyes brightened and she shook her jeweled fan. Esther looked at her with the thought, “Is he, then, so much handsomer than Ben-Hur?” Next moment she heard Ilderim say to her father, “Yes, his stall is number two on the left of the Porta Pompae;” and, thinking it was of Ben-Hur he spoke, her eyes turned that way. Taking but the briefest glance at the wattled face of the gate, she drew the veil close and muttered a little prayer.