Pírán chose from his troops six thousand horse—

Brave warriors. “Swiftly ply,” he said to them,
“Your fleet steeds' reins, like savage lions go
By day and night, no girdle must be loosed,
For if Khusrau and Gív shall reach Írán
The women there will be as lionesses,
And neither earth nor water will remain
Within Túrán. Afrásiyáb, heart-seared,
Will lay the blame of this escape on me,
Not on the process of sun, moon, and stars.”
Thereat they raised their heads and hurried on
By day and night, till seattered and disordered
They reached a narrow river, where the stream
Was deep and difficult for men to cross,
That river which was called Gulzaryún,
And was in springtide like a stream of blood.
Upon the further bank the prince and Gív
Were sleeping: Farangís was keeping watch,
And looking round her from her post descried
The banner of the leader of Túrán!
She ran to Gív, gave the alarm, and roused
The sleepers, crying: “Man of toil! arise!
'Tis time to flee, a host pursueth us.
Our time, I fear, is come. If they shall take thee
They will not leave thee living and will rack
Our hearts for thee. Me and my son in tears
Pírán will bear bound to Afrásiyáb,
And after that I know not what may chance;
None wotteth of the secrets of high heaven.”
Gív said: “O Moon of dames! why vex thy soul
Herein? Ascend yon mountain with the prince;
Fear nothing from Pírán or from his host.
The conquering Lord of earth is mine ally,
The star of fortune lieth on my breast.
By help of God, the Author of our lives,
I will not leave a rider in the saddle.”
Then said Khusrau: “O warrior! my cause
Is wearisome to thee. I have been spared
The net of bale. Seek not the Dragon's breath
So oft. Be mine to go upon the plain,
And spurt blood heavenward with my scimitar.”
Gív answered: “Noble prince! the world hath need
Of thee to wear its crown. My sire and I
Are paladins whose loins are ever girt
To serve the Sháhs; three score and eighteen brothers
Have I; the world will perish with thy name,
For paladins are many, Sháhs are few.
Few? I see none! If I am slain, another
Will take my place, the royal head and crown
Will still survive; but if afar from here
Thou perish*

I see none fit for the crown
And throne. The winds will take my seven years' toil,
My race will be disgraced. Choose then the heights,
And mark yon host. The World-lord is mine aid.
Earth is beneath thy shadowing wings; if I
Succeed thy Grace will give the victory.”