“Take the wall now!”
“On! loose the Arabs!
Give them rein and scourge!” “Let him not have the turn on thee again.
Now or never!”
Over the balustrade they stooped low, stretching their hands imploringly to him.
Either he did not hear, or could not do better, for halfway round the course and he was still following; at the second goal even still no change!
And now, to make the turn, Messala began to draw in his left-hand steeds, an act which necessarily slackened their speed.
His spirit was high; more than one altar was richer of his vows; the Roman genius was still president.
On the three pillars only six hundred feet away were fame, increase of fortune, promotions, and a triumph ineffably sweetened by hate, all in store for him!
That moment Malluch, in the gallery, saw Ben-Hur lean forward over his Arabs, and give them the reins.
Out flew the many-folded lash in his hand; over the backs of the startled steeds it writhed and hissed, and hissed and writhed again and again; and though it fell not, there were both sting and menace in its quick report; and as the man passed thus from quiet to resistless action, his face suffused, his eyes gleaming, along the reins he seemed to flash his will; and instantly not one, but the four as one, answered with a leap that landed them alongside the Roman’s car.
Messala, on the perilous edge of the goal, heard, but dared not look to see what the awakening portended.
From the people he received no sign.
Above the noises of the race there was but one voice, and that was Ben-Hur’s.
In the old Aramaic, as the sheik himself, he called to the Arabs,
“On, Atair!
On, Rigel!
What, Antares! dost thou linger now?
Good horse— oho, Aldebaran!
I hear them singing in the tents.
I hear the children singing and the women— singing of the stars, of Atair, Antares, Rigel, Aldebaran, victory!— and the song will never end.
Well done! Home to-morrow, under the black tent—home!
On, Antares!
The tribe is waiting for us, and the master is waiting! ’Tis done! ’tis done!
Ha, ha!
We have overthrown the proud. The hand that smote us is in the dust.
Ours the glory! Ha, ha!— steady! The work is done— soho! Rest!”
There had never been anything of the kind more simple; seldom anything so instantaneous.
At the moment chosen for the dash, Messala was moving in a circle round the goal.
To pass him, Ben-Hur had to cross the track, and good strategy required the movement to be in a forward direction; that is, on a like circle limited to the least possible increase.
The thousands on the benches understood it all: they saw the signal given— the magnificent response; the four close outside Messala’s outer wheel; Ben-Hur’s inner wheel behind the other’s car— all this they saw.
Then they heard a crash loud enough to send a thrill through the Circus, and, quicker than thought, out over the course a spray of shining white and yellow flinders flew.
Down on its right side toppled the bed of the Roman’s chariot.
There was a rebound as of the axle hitting the hard earth; another and another; then the car went to pieces; and Messala, entangled in the reins, pitched forward headlong.
To increase the horror of the sight by making death certain, the Sidonian, who had the wall next behind, could not stop or turn out. Into the wreck full speed he drove; then over the Roman, and into the latter’s four, all mad with fear. Presently, out of the turmoil, the fighting of horses, the resound of blows, the murky cloud of dust and sand, he crawled, in time to see the Corinthian and Byzantine go on down the course after Ben-Hur, who had not been an instant delayed.
The people arose, and leaped upon the benches, and shouted and screamed.
Those who looked that way caught glimpses of Messala, now under the trampling of the fours, now under the abandoned cars.
He was still; they thought him dead; but far the greater number followed Ben-Hur in his career.
They had not seen the cunning touch of the reins by which, turning a little to the left, he caught Messala’s wheel with the iron-shod point of his axle, and crushed it; but they had seen the transformation of the man, and themselves felt the heat and glow of his spirit, the heroic resolution, the maddening energy of action with which, by look, word, and gesture, he so suddenly inspired his Arabs.
And such running!
It was rather the long leaping of lions in harness; but for the lumbering chariot, it seemed the four were flying.
When the Byzantine and Corinthian were halfway down the course, Ben-Hur turned the first goal.
And the race was won!
The consul arose; the people shouted themselves hoarse; the editor came down from his seat, and crowned the victors.
The fortunate man among the boxers was a low-browed, yellow-haired Saxon, of such brutalized face as to attract a second look from Ben-Hur, who recognized a teacher with whom he himself had been a favorite at Rome.
From him the young Jew looked up and beheld Simonides and his party on the balcony.
They waved their hands to him.
Esther kept her seat; but Iras arose, and gave him a smile and a wave of her fan— favors not the less intoxicating to him because we know, O reader, they would have fallen to Messala had he been the victor.
The procession was then formed, and, midst the shouting of the multitude which had had its will, passed out of the Gate of Triumph.
And the day was over.