Next came two hands with fingers extended— large hands were they, and strong— their hold once fixed, might not be loosed.
Ben-Hur swerved from them appalled.
Up rose the helmet and the head it encased— then two arms, which began to beat the water wildly— the head turned back, and gave the face to the light.
The mouth gaping wide; the eyes open, but sightless, and the bloodless pallor of a drowning man—never anything more ghastly!
Yet he gave a cry of joy at the sight, and as the face was going under again, he caught the sufferer by the chain which passed from the helmet beneath the chin, and drew him to the plank.
The man was Arrius, the tribune.
For a while the water foamed and eddied violently about Ben-Hur, taxing all his strength to hold to the support and at the same time keep the Roman’s head above the surface.
The galley had passed, leaving the two barely outside the stroke of its oars.
Right through the floating men, over heads helmeted as well as heads bare, she drove, in her wake nothing but the sea sparkling with fire.
A muffled crash, succeeded by a great outcry, made the rescuer look again from his charge.
A certain savage pleasure touched his heart— the Astroea was avenged.
After that the battle moved on.
Resistance turned to flight.
But who were the victors?
Ben-Hur was sensible how much his freedom and the life of the tribune depended upon that event.
He pushed the plank under the latter until it floated him, after which all his care was to keep him there.
The dawn came slowly.
He watched its growing hopefully, yet sometimes afraid.
Would it bring the Romans or the pirates?
If the pirates, his charge was lost.
At last morning broke in full, the air without a breath.
Off to the left he saw the land, too far to think of attempting to make it.
Here and there men were adrift like himself.
In spots the sea was blackened by charred and sometimes smoking fragments.
A galley up a long way was lying to with a torn sail hanging from the tilted yard, and the oars all idle.
Still farther away he could discern moving specks, which he thought might be ships in flight or pursuit, or they might be white birds a-wing.
An hour passed thus.
His anxiety increased.
If relief came not speedily, Arrius would die.
Sometimes he seemed already dead, he lay so still.
He took the helmet off, and then, with greater difficulty, the cuirass; the heart he found fluttering.
He took hope at the sign, and held on.
There was nothing to do but wait, and, after the manner of his people, pray.
Chapter 6
The throes of recovery from drowning are more painful than the drowning.
These Arrius passed through, and, at length, to Ben-Hur’s delight, reached the point of speech.
Gradually, from incoherent questions as to where he was, and by whom and how he had been saved, he reverted to the battle.
The doubt of the victory stimulated his faculties to full return, a result aided not a little by a long rest— such as could be had on their frail support.
After a while he became talkative.
“Our rescue, I see, depends upon the result of the fight.
I see also what thou hast done for me.
To speak fairly, thou hast saved my life at the risk of thy own.
I make the acknowledgment broadly; and, whatever cometh, thou hast my thanks.
More than that, if fortune doth but serve me kindly, and we get well out of this peril, I will do thee such favor as becometh a Roman who hath power and opportunity to prove his gratitude.
Yet, yet it is to be seen if, with thy good intent, thou hast really done me a kindness; or, rather, speaking to thy good-will”— he hesitated—
“I would exact of thee a promise to do me, in a certain event, the greatest favor one man can do another— and of that let me have thy pledge now.”
“If the thing be not forbidden, I will do it,” Ben-Hur replied.
Arrius rested again.
“Art thou, indeed, a son of Hur, the Jew?” he next asked.
“It is as I have said.”