The baggage thus consigned to shrewd Ashkash,
The seven warriors set forth with Rustam.
With bridles on their saddle-bows they drew
The sword of vengeance. While all slept within
He reached the court-gate of Afrásiyáb,
And, breaking with his hands both bolt and bar,
Fierce as a lion flung himself inside.
In every quarter sounds of tumult rose,
Swords glittered, arrows rained, the chieftains' heads
Were all struck off, their hands were filled with dust,
Their mouths with blood, while Rustam in the porch
Cried: “May sweet sleep distaste thee! For thy bed
Thou hadst a throne, Bízhan had but a pit.
Didst see an iron wall between us? I
Am Rustam of Zábul, the son of Zál,
And 'tis no season this for sleep and couching.
I have burst through thy prison, door and bar,
Where that huge boulder stood on guard for thee.
Bízhan is free both head and foot from bonds:
Let no one thus maltreat a son-in-law!
Of fighting and revenge for Siyáwush,
And dust from Rakhsh's feet upon the plain,
Thou hadst enough yet fain wouldst slay Bízhan!
I know thy wicked heart and drowsy head.”
Bízhan too cried: “Dense and malignant Turkman!
Bethink thee of yon throne, thy glorious seat,
And me withal that stood in chains before thee.
I challenged combat leopard-like, but thou
Didst bind my hands together firm as rock.
Now see me free upon the plain—a man
Whom savage lions will not seek to fight.”
Afrásiyáb exclaimed: “Hath sleep enfettered
My warriors? Cut off these men's retreat,
All ye who seek a signet or a crown!”
On all sides was the sound of hurried steps,
The bloodshed made a river at the gate,
And when a soldier of Túrán appeared
His place was void forthwith, The Íránians
Came seeking vengeance, but Afrásiyáb
Escaped by flight. The lord of Rakhsh rode in
Upon the carpets of brocade. The warriors
Took the fair slaves who caught them by the hand,
Took too the noble steeds with poplar saddles,
Whose flaps of pard-skin were beset with gems,
Then left the royal palace, packed the baggage,
And stayed not in Túrán but hastened on
To save the booty and avoid mishap.
So spent was Rustam that he scarce endured
His helmet, while the horses and their riders
Had no pulse left. He sent to bid the host:—
“Unsheathe your vengeful scimitars; no doubt
The earth will be bedimmed by horses' hoofs,
Because Afrásiyáb will gather him
A mighty host whose spears will veil the sun.”
They marched along, those warlike cavaliers,
All ready for the fray, with sharpened lances
And reins well gathered in. A scout ascended
The look-out and from far surveyed the route
Whereby the Turkman cavaliers would come.
Manízha then was sitting in her tent;
Before her were her handmaids and her guide,
And matchless Rustam spoke to her this saw:—
“If musk be poured away the scent will stay.”
Such is the fashion of this Wayside Inn,
Whiles sweets and smiles, whiles travail and chagrin!