Under a broad, low forehead, under black well arched brows, beamed eyes dark-blue and large, and softened to exceeding tenderness by lashes of the great length sometimes seen on children, but seldom, if ever, on men.
As to the other features, it would have been difficult to decide whether they were Greek or Jewish.
The delicacy of the nostrils and mouth was unusual to the latter type; and when it was taken into account with the gentleness of the eyes, the pallor of the complexion, the fine texture of the hair, and the softness of the beard, which fell in waves over his throat to his breast, never a soldier but would have laughed at him in encounter, never a woman who would not have confided in him at sight, never a child that would not, with quick instinct, have given him its hand and whole artless trust; nor might any one have said he was not beautiful.
The features, it should be further said, were ruled by a certain expression which, as the viewer chose, might with equal correctness have been called the effect of intelligence, love, pity, or sorrow; though, in better speech, it was a blending of them all— a look easy to fancy as the mark of a sinless soul doomed to the sight and understanding of the utter sinfulness of those among whom it was passing; yet withal no one could have observed the face with a thought of weakness in the man; so, at least, would not they who know that the qualities mentioned— love, sorrow, pity— are the results of a consciousness of strength to bear suffering oftener than strength to do; such has been the might of martyrs and devotees and the myriads written down in saintly calendars.
And such, indeed, was the air of this one.
Slowly he drew near— nearer the three.
Now Ben-Hur, mounted and spear in hand, was an object to claim the glance of a king; yet the eyes of the man approaching were all the time raised above him—and not to Iras, whose loveliness has been so often remarked, but to Balthasar, the old and unserviceable.
The hush was profound.
Presently the Nazarite, still pointing with his staff, cried, in a loud voice,
“Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world!”
The many standing still, arrested by the action of the speaker, and listening for what might follow, were struck with awe by words so strange and past their understanding; upon Balthasar they were overpowering.
He was there to see once more the Redeemer of men.
The faith which had brought him the singular privileges of the time long gone abode yet in his heart; and if now it gave him a power of vision above that of his fellows— a power to see and know him for whom he was looking— better than calling the power a miracle, let it be thought of as the faculty of a soul not yet entirely released from the divine relations to which it had been formerly admitted, or as the fitting reward of a life in that age so without examples of holiness— a life itself a miracle.
The ideal of his faith was before him, perfect in face, form, dress, action, age; and he was in its view, and the view was recognition.
Ah, now if something should happen to identify the stranger beyond all doubt!
And that was what did happen.
Exactly at the fitting moment, as if to assure the trembling Egyptian, the Nazarite repeated the outcry,
“Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world!”
Balthasar fell upon his knees.
For him there was no need of explanation; and as if the Nazarite knew it, he turned to those more immediately about him staring in wonder, and continued:
“This is he of whom I said, After me cometh a man which is preferred before me, for he was before me.
And I knew him not: but that he should be manifest to Israel, therefore am I come baptizing with water.
I saw the Spirit descending from heaven like a dove, and it abode upon him.
And I knew him not: but he that sent me to baptize with water, the same said unto me, Upon whom thou shalt see the Spirit descending and remaining on him, the same is he which baptizeth with the Holy Ghost.
And I saw and bare record, that this”— he paused, his staff still pointing at the stranger in the white garments, as if to give a more absolute certainty to both his words and the conclusions intended— “I bare record, that this is the son of god!”
“It is he, it is he!” Balthasar cried, with upraised tearful eyes.
Next moment he sank down insensible.
In this time, it should be remembered, Ben-Hur was studying the face of the stranger, though with an interest entirely different.
He was not insensible to its purity of feature, and its thoughtfulness, tenderness, humility, and holiness; but just then there was room in his mind for but one thought— Who is this man?
And what?
Messiah or king?
Never was apparition more unroyal.
Nay, looking at that calm, benignant countenance, the very idea of war and conquest, and lust of dominion, smote him like a profanation.
He said, as if speaking to his own heart, Balthasar must be right and Simonides wrong.
This man has not come to rebuild the throne of Solomon; he has neither the nature nor the genius of Herod; king he may be, but not of another and greater than Rome.
It should be understood now that this was not a conclusion with Ben-Hur, but an impression merely; and while it was forming, while yet he gazed at the wonderful countenance, his memory began to throe and struggle.
“Surely,” he said to himself, “I have seen the man; but where and when?”
That the look, so calm, so pitiful, so loving, had somewhere in a past time beamed upon him as that moment it was beaming upon Balthasar became an assurance.
Faintly at first, at last a clear light, a burst of sunshine, the scene by the well at Nazareth what time the Roman guard was dragging him to the galleys returned, and all his being thrilled.
Those hands had helped him when he was perishing.
The face was one of the pictures he had carried in mind ever since.
In the effusion of feeling excited, the explanation of the preacher was lost by him, all but the last words— words so marvellous that the world yet rings with them:
“— this is the son of god!”
Ben-Hur leaped from his horse to render homage to his benefactor; but Iras cried to him,
“Help, son of Hur, help, or my father will die!”
He stopped, looked back, then hurried to her assistance.
She gave him a cup; and leaving the slave to bring the camel to its knees, he ran to the river for water.
The stranger was gone when he came back.
At last Balthasar was restored to consciousness.
Stretching forth his hands, he asked, feebly,