Time passed, the army of Írán was scattered,
And all the while in Rúm the keepers watched
Shápúr both day and night, howbeit the damsel,
That was Íránian-born, rejoiced not o'er him,
But wept for him, thus clad in ass's hide,
Incessantly; her heart burned for Shápúr.
One day she said: “O goodly man! who art thou?
Speak and fear not, for in this ass's skin
Thy graceful form hath neither sleep nor rest.
Thou wast a Cypress with the moon full-orbed
Above it, and that moon had musk-black curls,
But now thy cypress-form is like a hoop,
Thine elephantine body like a reed.
My heart is burning, mine eyes weep, for thee
Both day and night. What wouldst thou in thine
anguish?
Why tell not me thy secret?”

Said Shápúr:—

“If thou art well disposed to me, my Fair!
I ask thy promise—one confirmed by oath
That thou wilt keep it—not to tell my foes
My secret, but be mindful of mine anguish;
Then will I tell thee what thou wouldst—the truth.”
The damsel sware to him by the All-just,
The cincture of the priest*

—that stalwart guide—
The life of Christ, the Passion of the Cross,
The master of Írán, and love and fear:—
“I will not tell or benefit thereby.”
He told all, hiding neither good nor bad,
And said to her: “Now if thou wilt perform
My hest, and pledge thy heart to keep my secret,

Thy head shall be exalted o'er all dames,
The world be at thy feet. At meal-time thou
Shalt bring warm milk and supple me this hide.
Soak it because it shall become world-famous,
And after my decease the men of wisdom
Will tell the tale for many a year.”

The damsel

Used her endeavours to obtain hot milk,
But furtively and speaking 'neath her breath.
On coming back with milk she used to set
Upon the fire a bowl thereof, then bear it
In secret to Shápúr, informing none.
In two weeks' time the ass's hide was moistened,
And when with aching body and full heart
Shápúr came forth therefrom he said to her
In confidence: “O pure one, vigilant,
And kindly in thy deeds! we must advise,
And frame a stratagem to 'scape from Rúm:
May blessing never light on such a land!”
The damsel said to him: “Tomorrow morn
Our chiefs will set forth to the banquet-place.
There is a feast in Rúm that men and women,
And children will attend. Whenas the queen
Shall leave the city for the merrymake
Upon the plain, the coast will be all clear,
And I will manage, reckless of mishap;
My wits shall get for thee two steeds, two maces,
And bow and arrows.

Hearing this, he praised

That worshipful, foreseeing maid, grew bold,
And in this case took wisdom for his guide.
Whenas the Fount of Light sank in the west,
And night drew o'er its head the Veil of Pitch,
Shápúr mused much: “What will she do tomorrow?”
When Sol arose in Leo, when day waxed
And slumber waned, the great men of the city
Went to the feast. That damsel, like a man
Full of resource, began to ply her schemes.
She had the empty palace to herself,
Had lion's heart withal and leopard's claws.
She brought two noble horses from the stalls,
Chose weapons fit for valiant cavaliers
With all that she had need of in dínárs,
In pearls, in rubies, and in every thing.
When all was ready, and the night had come,
The pair resolved to act and started forth

Toward Írán, both full of secret joy,
In quest of safety. Night and day alike
They hurried onward, neither slept nor ate,
And from the city through the thornbrakes reached
A province civilised. When steeds and riders
Grew faint with hurrying they sought a place
To halt at, came upon a pleasant village
With gardens, park, and pleasances, and there,
Toil-worn and fleeing from calamity,
Knocked at a gardener's door, who hurried out—
A hospitable man of kindly heart—
And, seeing two with armour, spears, and helms,
Said to the Sháh: “Why is this visitation?
Whence hast thou sprung at this untimely hour,
Armed for an expedition?”

Said Shápúr:—

“Good friend! thou askest much of one astray!
A traveller I, a native of Írán,
And bent on flight. I am in Cæsar's danger
And in his troops', and never may I see
His head and crown! If thou wilt be my host
To-night, and play the marchlord's part discreetly,*

Sure am I that one day 'twill profit thee;
The tree that thou shalt plant will bear thee fruit.”
The gardener said: “The house is thine, the gardener
Himself thy guest. Whate'er I can I will,
Informing none.”

Then Sháh Shápúr alighted,

He and the damsel, and the gardener's wife
Gat ready food for them as best she could.
When they had eaten bread they turned to wine,
And had a lowly chamber dight. The gardener
Gave to Shápúr the wine forthwith, and said:—
Drink thou to whom thou wilt.”

“My host,” he answered,

“And gardener eloquent and excellent!
The man that bringeth wine should drink it first,
When first in years and wisdom. Thou art older
Than I and, since thou furnishest the wine,
Thou shouldst begin.”

“Great sir!” the gardener said,

“The man of Grace should drink first. Lead the way
As old in wisdom though more young in years.
I seem to scent a crown upon thy locks;
Thy visage too is like the sun.”

Shápúr

Smiled, took the wine, and sighed. “O pious man!”
He said, “what tidings from Írán hast thou?”

The gardener said: “O thou of kingly mind!
May foe ne'er harm thee. May the ills that Cæsar
Hath brought upon the Íránians now befall
Our foemen. All are scattered in Írán,
And tilth and crop remain not. Massacre
And pillage have dispersed our mighty folk,
While many have turned Christians and come zoned
Before the bishops, many don priests' caps
That they may have a land and resting-place!”
The other said: “Where then was Sháh Shápúr,
Who used to shine resplendent as the moon
Upon Urmuzd, that Cæsar thus should dare,
And fortune overcast the Íránians' lustre?”
The gardener answered him: “Exalted one!
Be majesty and pleasure ever thine.
No tidings of his whereabouts, alive
Or dead, hath reached the Íránian potentates:
The people of Írán are slaves in Rúm.”
The gardener, the Sháh's host, wept bitterly,
And added: “Thou shalt stay three days, and then
My house will be the lustre of the world
Because a sage said when the world was young:—
‘Unwise is he whose courtesy is scant
To guests; black fortune will ensure him want.’
So tarry, rest, and take a cup of wine,
And when thy heart is merry tell thy name.”
Shápúr said: “Good! Our host is our Great King,
At present.”

He abode, ate, and conversed,

That night, and when morn rose above the mountains,
When rose the Golden Banner from the dales,
The master of the garden visited
His guest, and said: “Good day to thee, and may
Thy head be o'er the rain-clouds. This abode
Was not a fitting resting-place for thee,
Nor was the season suited for repose.”
Shápúr replied: “My friend! I should prefer
This house to crown and throne. And now bring forth
A Zandavasta and thy sacred twigs
That while I mutter I may ask thee questions.”*

He did according to the Sháh's command,
Made the twigs ready and the place of prayer.
Then as he prayed the Sháh said: “Tell me truly
Where the high priest is now.”

His host replied:—

“Sweet-tongued and holy man! I can discern
His house from here.”

The Sháh said privily:—

“Request some seal-clay of the village-chief.”

The gardener got it and returned at once.
The world-lord pressed his signet on the clay,
Returned it to the gardener with his thanks,
And said to him: “Give this clay to the high priest,
And mark his words.”

That morn the gardener

Went with the impress of the royal signet,
But on arrival found the portal barred,
And armed men stationed round. He clamoured loudly
To be admitted and proceeded straightway
Before the high priest, showed the signature,
And did obeisance. When the high priest looked,
And saw the impress, that wise statist's heart
Began to throb with joy and, weeping greatly
Upon that name, he asked: “What man is this?”
The gardener said: “My lord! the cavalier
Is staying at my house and hath with him
A Moon, slim cypress-like, wise, fair, and graceful.”
The high priest said: “Now as to this aspirant,*

What is he like in stature and in face?”
The gardener answered: “One that ne'er hath seen
Spring, and a cypress by the water's side,
Would yet at sight of this man's looks and stature
Find music in his heart. His arms are like
A camel's thighs, his chest is like a lion's,
His check like blood. Shame reddeneth at his grace,
The crown's decore proceedeth from his face.”