There was a paladin, a Turk by race,
A man of influence and named Bízhan;
He dwelt within the coasts of Samarkand
Where he had many kin. Ill-starred Mahwí,
Becoming self-assertive, wrote to him:—
“Thou prosperous sçion of the paladins!
A strife hath risen that will bring thee profit:
The Sháh is of all places here at Marv
And with no troops! His head and crown and state,
Wealth, throne, and host, are thine if thou wilt come.
Recall the vengeance owing to thy sires,
And give this unjust race its just reward.”
Bízhan, considering the letter, saw
That insolent Máhwí would win the world,
Then spake thus to his minister: “Thou chief
Of upright men! what sayest thou to this?
If I lead forth a host to aid Máhwí
'Twill be my ruin here.”*

The minister

Replied: “O lion-hearted warrior!

'Twere shame to help Máhwí and then withdraw.
Command Barsám to set forth with a host
To aid upon this scene of strife. The sage
Will term thee daft to go and fight in person
At the insistence of this man of Súr.”
Bízhan replied: “'Tis well, I will not go
Myself.”
He therefore bade Barsám to lead
Ten thousand valiant cavaliers and swordsmen
To Marv with all the implements of war
If haply he might take the Sháh. That host
Went like a flying pheasant from Bukhárá
To Marv within one week. One night at cock-crow
The sound of tymbals went up from the plain.
How could the king of kings suspect Mahwí
Of Súr to be his enemy? Shouts rose.
A cavalier reached Yazdagird at dawn
To say: “Máhwí saith thus: ‘A host of Turks
Hath come. What is the bidding of the Sháh?
The Khán and the Faghfúr of Chín command:
Earth is not able to support their host!’”
The Sháh wroth donned his mail. The armies
ranged.*

He formed his troops to right and left, and all
Advanced to battle. Spear in hand he held
The centre, and the whole world was bedimmed
With flying dust. He saw how lustily
The Turks engaged, unsheathed his sword, and came,
As 'twere an elephant before his troops.
Earth Nile-wise flowed. Like thundering cloud he
charged,
But not a warrior supported him;
All turned their backs upon that man of name,
And left him mid the horsemen of the foe.
The world's king, when Máhwí withdrew, perceived
The practice hid till then—the intent and plan
To capture him—yet played the man in fight,
Displaying valour, strength, and warriorship,
Slew many at the centre, but at length
Fled in despair, with falchion of Kábul
In hand, pursued by many Turks. He sped
Like lightning mid night's gloom and spied a mill
On the canal of Zark*.

Alighting there
The world's king lay in hiding from his foes
Within the mill. The horsemen searched for him;
All Zark was hue and cry. The Sháh abandoned

His gold-trapped steed, his mace, and scimitar
With golden sheath. The Turks with loud shouts
sought him,
Excited by that steed and equipage.
The Sháh within the mill-house lurked in hay.
With this false Hostel thus it ever is:
The ascent is lofty and profound the abyss.
With Yazdagird, while fortune slumbered not,
A throne enskied*

by heaven was his lot,
And now it was a mill! Excess of sweet
Bred bane for him and, if thou art discreet,
Affect not this world for its end is ill.
Whiles a tame serpent to the touch it still
At whiles will bite, and hot that bite will be.
Why then affect this cozening hostelry
While like a drum the signal to be gone
Thou hearest, bidding: “Bind the baggage on,
And for sole throne the grave's floor look upon?”
With mouth untasting and with tearful eyes
The Sháh abode until the sun arose,
And then the miller oped the mill-house door.
He bore a truss of grass upon his back.
A low-born-man was he, by name Khusrau,
Poor, foolish, unrespected, purposeless.
He lived upon the profits of his mill,
Which gave him full employment. He beheld
A warrior, like a lofty cypress, sitting
In dolour on the ground with kingly crown
Upon his head and with brocade of Rúm
Bright on his breast; his eyes a stag's, his chest
And neck a lion's; of beholding him
The eye ne'er tired. He was unique in form;
Wore golden boots; his sleeves were fringed with
pearls
And gold. Khusrau looked, stood astound, and
called
On God, then said: “O man of sunlike mien!
Say in what sort thou camest to this mill?
Why didst thou take it for thy resting-place
Full as it is of wheat and dust and hay?
Who art thou with such form, such Grace and looks?
Sure, heaven never saw the like of thee!”
The Sháh replied: “I am Íránian-born,
In flight before the army of Túrán.”
The miller said, abashed: “I have no comrade
Save penury, but still, if barley-bread,
With some poor cresses from the river-bank,
Will serve thee I will bring them; naught have I
Besides: a man so straitened well may wail.”
Through stress of fight the Sháh had rested not,
Or eaten, for three days and so replied:—
“Bring what thou hast, that and the sacred twigs
Will serve my turn.”

The poor and lowly miller

Brought him the cresses and the barley-bread,
Made haste to fetch the sacred twigs and, reaching
The toll-house*

on the way, crossed to the chief
Of Zark to make request for them. Máhwí
Had sent men on all sides to find the Sháh,
And so the chieftain asked the miller: “Friend!
For whom need'st thou the sacred twigs?”

Khusrau

Replied: “There is a warrior at the mill,
And seated on the hay, a cypress slim
In height, a sun in looks, a man of Grace,
With eyebrows arched and melancholy eyes:
His mouth is full of sighs, his soul is sad.
I set stale fare before him—barley-bread,
Such as I eat myself—but he is fain
To take the sacred twigs while muttering grace.*

Thou well mayst muse at him.”

The chief rejoined:—

“Go and inform Máhwí of Súr hereof,
For that foul miscreant must not reveal
His proper bent when he shall hear of this.”*

Forthwith he charged a trusty man to take
The miller to Máhwí who asked of him,
Then anxious for himself; “For whom didst thou
Require the sacred twigs? Tell me the truth.”
The miller all a-tremble made reply:—
“I had been out to fetch a load and flung
The mill-door open roughly, when know this:
The sun was in mine eyes, but his are like
Those of a startled fawn; his locks are dark
As the third watch of night; his breath suggesteth
Musk, and his face embellisheth his crown.
One that hath never seen the Grace of God
Should take the mill-house key. His diadem
Is full of uncut jewels, and his breast
Bright with brocade of Rúm. The mill hath grown
As 'twere a sun through him, and yet his food
Is barley-bread, his seat upon the hay!
‘Spring,’ thou wouldst say, ‘in Paradise is he:
No thane e'er set so tall a cypress-tree.’”