n of an army of boys, hooting and
screaming, "The King of the Jews! Room, room for the King of
the Jews!"

Simonides watched them as they whirled and danced along, like a
cloud of summer insects, and said, gravely, "When these come to
their inheritance, son of Hur, alas for the city of Solomon!"

A band of legionaries fully armed followed next, marching in
sturdy indifference, the glory of burnished brass about them
the while.

Then came the NAZARENE!

He was nearly dead. Every few steps he staggered as if he would
fall. A stained gown badly torn hung from his shoulders over a
seamless undertunic. His bare feet left red splotches upon the
stones. An inscription on a board was tied to his neck. A crown
of thorns had been crushed hard down upon his head, making cruel
wounds from which streams of blood, now dry and blackened, had run
over his face and neck. The long hair, tangled in the thorns,
was clotted thick. The skin, where it could be seen, was ghastly
white. His hands were tied before him. Back somewhere in the city
he had fallen exhausted under the transverse beam of his cross,
which, as a condemned person, custom required him to bear to the
place of execution; now a countryman carried the burden in his
stead. Four soldiers went with him as a guard against the mob,
who sometimes, nevertheless, broke through, and struck him with
sticks, and spit upon him. Yet no sound escaped him, neither
remonstrance nor groan; nor did he look up until he was nearly in
front of the house sheltering Ben-Hur and his friends, all of whom
were moved with quick compassion. Esther clung to her father; and he,
strong of will as he was, trembled. Balthasar fell down speechless.
Even Ben-Hur cried out, "O my God! my God!" Then, as if he divined
their feelings or heard the exclamation, the Nazarene turned his
wan face towards the party, and looked at them each one, so they
carried the look in memory through life. They could see he was
thinking of them, not himself, and the dying eyes gave them the
blessing he was not permitted to speak.

"Where are thy legions, son of Hur?" asked Simonides, aroused.

"Hannas can tell thee better than I."

"What, faithless?"

"All but these two."

"Then all is lost, and this good man must die!"

The face of the merchant knit convulsively as he spoke, and his
head sank upon his breast. He had borne his part in Ben-Hur's
labors well, and he had been inspired by the same hopes, now blown
out neve