Now when the world grew radiant with the sun
Bízhan arrived and roamed the mead to find
Some trace of his lost comrade. He descried
Far off a dun steed like one ridden post.
It pranced and grazed, like leopards at their ease,
With saddle underneath and broken reins.
Bízhan descried the saddle upside down,
The stirrups and the lasso drenched with blood,
A sight whereat his wits abandoned him,
And like a roaring lion's was his cry.
Thus said he: “O my comrade kind and good!
Where hast thou fallen in the pasturage?

My back-bone hast thou broken, bruised my heart,
And as for dear life I have done with it.
What shall I say? Where shall I seek thee now?
What tricks hath yonder sky played off on thee?”
He followed up the horse-tracks to the spring,
And there saw Gustaham upon the mead,
His mail and helmet smirched with dust and blood,
Himself flung headlong down—a mass of wounds.
Bízhan alighted swiftly from Shabrang,
And pressed his comrade in a close embrace,
Removed the Rúman breastplate that he wore,
And took the helmet from his wounded head,
Surveyed his body in its stricken plight,
Saw that the wounds, whence matter ran, were mortal
If left undressed, and that his heart and soul
Were filled with grief and anguish. Scanning well
These wounds Bízhan lamented o'er him saying:—
“O my good comrade! thou hast gone, and I
Have striven but ill. I should have sought thee sooner,
And come upon the scene when thou wast fighting.
I might have helped thee at the time of need,
When thou wast combating with Áhriman,
But now the foe hath satisfied his lust
And done whate'er he would.”

The wounded man

Was roused and breathing hard replied: “Good friend!
Grieve not for me; thy pain is worse to me
Than mine own death. Re-helm my wounded head,
And make some shift to bear me to the Sháh.
God grant that I may live to look on him,
And then I shall not fear the approach of death,
For none of us may couch save in the dust.

The man who dieth having won his will,
And compassed all his purpose, is not dead.
Next as for these two cowards, craven foes,
Whom God hath slain through me, thou mayst perchance
Make shift to carry them upon a saddle,
Or, if not so, behead them, and convey
Their noble heads and weapons when thou goest
That men may understand about this combat;
Tell too the Sháh, the ruler of the world,
That, not in vain, I gave my head to wind,
But roughed it everywhere in quest of fame.”
He pointed out those Turkmans to Bízhan,
Far in the distance, slain, and cast away;
Then faintness seized his soul. Bízhan, distraught
With grief, went to his charger, loosed the girths,
Laid, wailing bitterly, the saddle-cloth
Beneath the wounded man, tore up his shirt
For bandages, and bound the wounds with care.
Grief-gloomed of soul he hurried to a hill,
Thence spied some scattered Turkman cavaliers
Upon the desert, came down swift as lightning,
Distraught by dread that Gustaham might die,
And all at once of those fear-stricken horsemen
Saw from afar two speeding on their way.
He loosed his lasso, noosed a Turkman's neck,
Flung him, but gave him quarter for his life,
And thus obtained a helper for himself.
Thence hasting on like dust before the wind
He went toward Lahhák and Farshídward,
And found them on the ground and drenched with blood,
While at their heads their chargers grazed at ease.
Bízhan saw all and lauded Gustaham
Because he had achieved complete revenge.
He bade the Turkman, who had begged his life,
To place those two commanders of the host
Upon a saddle, then like some fierce pard
Returned to Gustaham, raised him like wind
Upon the saddle gently with no pain,
And bade that Turkman mount upon the steed,
And clasp the wounded man about the waist.
The Turkman travelled at an easy pace,
Invoking fervent blessings on Bízhan,
Who rode in pain and grief, all soul-distraught
For Gustaham—would he avail to bring
The wounded man still living to the king?