The van appeared in front of Dahistán
As morn rose o'er the hills. The armies camped
Two leagues apart in warlike pomp. A Turkman,
By name Bármán—one who bade sleepers wake—
Approached, spied out the whole Íránian host
And viewed the camp-enclosure of Naudar,
Returned, reported to his chief, and said:—
“How long must all our prowess be concealed?
Now if the king permit I will engage
Our foemen like a lion. They shall see
My skill and know no hero but myself.”
“But if in this,” said prudent Ighríras,
“Some misadventure should befall Bármán,
Our marchlords would be cowed, our folk dis­couraged.
Nay, choose we rather one of small account,
For whom we need not bite our nails and lips.”
Then lowered Afrásiyáb, ashamed to hear
Such words, and frowning spake thus to Bármán:—
“Put on thine armour and string up thy bow;
It will not come to using teeth and nails.”
Bármán pricked forth and shouted to Káran:—
“In all the army of the famed Naudar
Hast thou a man who will contend with me?”
Káran looked round upon his mighty men
For one to volunteer, but none responded
Save valiant old Kubád. The prudent chief
Was grieved and troubled when his brother spake,

And wept for wrath, and there was room for it
With that great host, that, with so many young
To fight, one old man only volunteered.
Vexed to the heart about Kubád, Káran
Addressed him thus in presence of the chiefs:—
“At thine age thou shouldst not contend with one
Fresh, ardent, young, and daring, like Bármán,
Who hath a lion's heart, and head sun-high.
Thou art an honoured chieftain, and the centre
Of counsel to our Sháh. If thy white locks
Grow red with blood our bravest will despair.”
Mark his reply in presence of the troops:—
“The rolling sky hath given me enough.
Know, brother! that the body is for death;
My head and neck were meant to wear a helm.
My heart hath been in anguish from the time
Of blesséd Minúchihr until this day.
No mortal passeth into heaven alive,
Man is death's quarry; one the scimitar
Destroyeth mid the mellay, and the vulture
And lion tear his corpse; another's life
Is ended on his bed. Beyond all question
We must depart, and if I quit the world
My tall and lusty brother is still safe.
Make me a royal charnel in your love,
Give musk, rose-water, camphor for my head,
My body to the place of endless sleep.
This do, live peacefully, and trust in God.”
This said, he grasped his spear and sallied forth
Like some fierce elephant. Bármán exclaimed:—
“Now hath fate put thy head within my reach.
Well hadst thou held aloof, for time itself
Would have thy life.”

“The sky,” Kubád replied,

“Gave me my share long since, and he whose hour
Hath come will have to die where'er he be:
That time is not ill-timed at any time.”
He spake and urged his sable steed, denying
His ardent heart all rest. The two contended
From dawn till shadows lengthened. In the end
The victory was Bármán's, who as he rode
Hurled at Kubád a dart which struck his hip
And pierced his belt. That ancient lion-heart
Fell headlong and so passed. Then with cheeks flushed
With pride and satisfaction came Bármán
Before Afrásiyáb, who gave him gifts
Unprecedented as from king to liege.
Káran the battle-lover, when Kubád
Was slain, drew out his army and attacked.
The two hosts seemed as 'twere two seas of Chín,
Thou wouldst have said: “Earth shaketh.”

Then Káran

The warrior rushed forth and Garsíwaz,
Huge as an elephant, confronted him.
The chargers neighed, the sun and shining moon
Were hidden by the dust-clouds of the host,

Swords diamond-bright and spear-heads steeped in gore
Shone mid the dust—dust like a rainy cloud
Wherethrough vermilion droppeth from the sun,
A cloud whose marrow thrilled with tymbal-din,
While liquid crimson drenched the falchions' souls.
Where'er Káran urged on his steed the steel
Flashed like Ázargashasp, and thou hadst said:—
“His Diamond sheddeth Coral.” Nay, shed souls.
Afrásiyáb beheld and led his troops
Against Káran, and with insatiate hearts
They fought till night rose o'er the hills, and then
Káran withdrew the host to Dahistán.
With heart distracted by his brother's death
He came to the pavilion of Naudar,
Who on beholding him let tears down fall
From weary eyelids that had seen no sleep,
And said: “Since Sám the horseman died my soul
Hath not grieved thus. Live thou for evermore,
And sunlike be the spirit of Kubád.
A day of joy and then a day of grief,
Such is the wont and fashion of the world!
No fostering will rescue us from death;
Earth's only cradle is the sepulchre.”
“I have resigned to death,” Káran replied,
“My doughty body even from my birth.
'Twas Farídún that put my helmet on
That I might tread the earth to avenge Íraj,
And hitherto I have not loosed my girdle,
Nor laid aside the sword of steel. My brother—
That sage—is dead. I too shall die in harness;
But be of cheer, Afrásiyáb to-day
Was straitened, and he called up his reserves.
He saw me with mine ox-head mace and eagerly
Attacked me; eye to eye I fronted him.
He used some magic and my keen eyes lost
Their vision, night came on and all was dark,
Mine arm was tired of striking. Thou hadst said:—
‘The End hath come.’ The sky was overcast,
And we were forced to quit the battlefield
Because the troops were spent and it was dark.”
The opposing hosts reposed a while, and when
The morrow dawned began the strife again.