Of nights I would pray the gods, the good and the bad alike, to lend me their special terrors--tempests, drought, heat, cold, and all the nameless poisons they let loose in air, all the thousand things of which men die on sea and on land.

Oh, I could not sleep.

I--I--" The sheik stopped for want of breath, panting, wringing his hands.
And, sooth to say, of all the passionate burst Ben-Hur retained but a vague impression wrought by fiery eyes, a piercing voice, and a rage too intense for coherent expression.
For the first time in years, the desolate youth heard himself addressed by his proper name.

One man at least knew him, and acknowledged it without demand of identity; and he an Arab fresh from the desert! How came the man by his knowledge?
The letter?
No.

It told the cruelties from which his family had suffered; it told the story of his own misfortunes, but it did not say he was the very victim whose escape from doom was the theme of the heartless narrative.
That was the point of explanation he had notified the sheik would follow the reading of the letter.