“They have discovered a conspiracy. Pilate’s new aqueduct is to be paid for with money of the Temple.”
“What, with the sacred treasure?”
They repeated the question to each other with flashing eyes.
“It is Corban—money of God. Let him touch a shekel of it if he dare!”
“Come,” cried the messenger. “The procession is by this time across the bridge. The whole city is pouring after. We may be needed. Make haste!”
As if the thought and the act were one, there was quick putting away of useless garments, and the party stood forth bareheaded, and in the short sleeveless under-tunics they were used to wearing as reapers in the field and boatmen on the lake—the garb in which they climbed the hills following the herds, and plucked the ripened vintage, careless of the sun. Lingering only to tighten their girdles, they said, “We are ready.”
Then Ben-Hur spoke to them.
“Men of Galilee,” he said, “I am a son of Judah. Will you take me in your company?”
“We may have to fight,” they replied.
“Oh, then, I will not be first to run away!”