White hair dropped in thin locks over the white brows, deepening the blackness of the eyes shining through them like sullen lights.

The face was bloodless, and much puffed with folds, especially under the chin.

In other words, the head and face were those of a man who might move the world more readily than the world could move him--a man to be twice twelve times tortured into the shapeless cripple he was, without a groan, much less a confession; a man to yield his life, but never a purpose or a point; a man born in armor, and assailable only through his loves.

To him Ben-Hur stretched his hands, open and palm up, as he would offer peace at the same time he asked it.
"I am Judah, son of Ithamar, late head of the House of Hur, and a prince of Jerusalem." The merchant's right hand lay outside the robe--a long, thin hand, articulate to deformity with suffering.

It closed tightly; otherwise there was not the slightest expression of feeling of any kind on his part; nothing to warrant an inference of surprise or interest; nothing but this calm answer, "The princes of Jerusalem, of the pure blood, are always welcome in my house; you are welcome.