There was a famous Turkman named Arzhang,
One whose renown in warfare reached the clouds.
He sent the dust up from the battlefield,
And challenged the Íránians. Tús from far
Saw him and shouted, drew his sword and asked
That son of Zira: “What name bearest thou?
Who is thy fellow in the Turkman host?”
He said: “Arzhang am I, a warrior—
A noble Lion who can bide his time.
Now will I make the earth quake under thee,
And cast thy head upon the field of fight.”

Tús, hearing but disdaining all reply,
Smote with the glittering falchion in his hand
That chieftain on the helm, and thou hadst said:—
“His body never bore a head at all!”
Pírán grieved sorely and the Turkman host,
And none came forth, but all the warriors
And chieftains of Túrán drew scimitar
And massive mace, and shouted to each other,
Those Lions: “Let us charge and make the world
Strait to the heart of Tús.”

Then said Húmán:—

“To-day we will prepare. Be not cast down.
If any noble of the Íránians
Shall come to challenge us we will dispatch
A man to fight him and will mark the issue,
But not provoke them rashly. What we need
Is respite for a day, but when the host
Is stirring, and the tymbals sound in camp,
Then from beyond the stream be onslaught made
With mace in hand if God and fortune aid.”