Up a little way from the dower there was a cluster of palms, which threw its shade half in the water, half on the land.

A bulbul sang from the branches a song of invitation.

Ben-Hur stopped beneath to listen.

At any other time the notes of the bird would have driven thought away; but the story of the Egyptian was a burden of wonder, and he was a laborer carrying it, and, like other laborers, there was to him no music in the sweetest music until mind and body were happily attuned by rest.
The night was quiet.

Not a ripple broke upon the shore.