On the benches, the slaves struggled to tear loose from their chains, and, finding their efforts vain, howled like madmen; the guards had gone upstairs; discipline was out, panic in.

No, the chief kept his chair, unchanged, calm as ever--except the gavel, weaponless.

Vainly with his clangor he filled the lulls in the din.

Ben-Hur gave him a last look, then broke away--not in flight, but to seek the tribune.
A very short space lay between him and the stairs of the hatchway aft.

He took it with a leap, and was half-way up the steps--up far enough to catch a glimpse of the sky blood-red with fire, of the ships alongside, of the sea covered with ships and wrecks, of the fight closed in about the pilot's quarter, the assailants many, the defenders few--when suddenly his foothold was knocked away, and he pitched backward.