The fourth fight—Furúhil's with Zangula—
Was that of combatants like lions loose.
In truth there was no warrior in Írán
To match in archery with Furúhil,
Who, seeing that grim Turkman from afar,
Strung up his bow and, bending it, began
To shower shafts on Zangula, employing
The horsemen's ambuscade. One poplar arrow,
Which flew with wind-like swiftness, struck his thigh,
Transfixing horse and rider. The fleet steed
Came to the ground headforemost with the smart,
Unseating Zangula whose face was wan;
His head sank and he yielded up the ghost;
Full surely he was born for evil days.
Then Furúhil leaped down, beheaded him,
Stripped off the Rúman armour that he wore,
And made his head fast to the saddle-straps,
Then took with him the steed of Zangula,
And scaled the hill, as he had been a leopard,
With breast and hand and sword all drenched with gore.
He raised the glorious flag, glad-hearted he
At having gained his end triumphantly.