Next morning, about the second hour, two men rode full speed to the doors of Ben-Hur’s tents, and dismounting, asked to see him. He was not yet risen, but gave directions for their admission.
“Peace to you, brethren,” he said, for they were of his Galileans, and trusted officers. “Will you be seated?”
“Nay,” the senior replied, bluntly, “to sit and be at ease is to let the Nazarene die. Rise, son of Judah, and go with us. The judgment has been given. The tree of the cross is already at Golgotha.”
Ben-Hur stared at them.
“The cross!” was all he could for the moment say.
“They took him last night, and tried him,” the man continued. “At dawn they led him before Pilate. Twice the Roman denied his guilt; twice he refused to give him over. At last he washed his hands, and said, ‘Be it upon you then;’ and they answered—”
“Who answered?”
“They—the priests and people—‘His blood be upon us and our children.’”
“Holy father Abraham!” cried Ben-Hur; “a Roman kinder to an Israelite than his own kin! And if—ah, if he should indeed be the son of God, what shall ever wash his blood from their children? It must not be—’tis time to fight!”
His face brightened with resolution, and he clapped his hands.