The Sháh dismounted from his night-hued steed,
Removed his royal helmet and, entrusting
The noble charger to Ruhhám, advanced
As 'twere Ázargashasp. When Shída saw
From far Khusrau approaching him on foot
That warlike Crocodile dismounted likewise,
And there upon the plain the champions closed
Like elephants, and puddled earth with blood.
When Shída saw the stature of the Sháh,
The breast, the Grace divine, and mastery,
He sought some shift whereby he might escape;
Such is the purchase of a shifty heart!

Khusrau, when ware of this, though not expressed
In words, reached out, strong in the strength of Him
By whom the world was made—the Omnipotent—
And, as a lion putteth forth its paws
Upon an onager and flingeth it,
Clutched with left hand the neck, with right the back
Of Shída, raised him, dashed him to the ground,
And brake his legs and back-bone like a reed.
Then, drawing forth his trenchant blade, Khusrau
Clave Shída's heart in twain and, having shivered
His breastplate and thrown dust upon his helmet,
Said to Ruhhám: “This matchless miscreant,
Brave but unstable, was my mother's brother;
Entreat him kindly now that he is slain,
And fashion him a royal sepulchre;
Anoint his head with precious gums, rose-water,
And musk, his body with pure camphor; place
A golden torque about his neck, a casque
With ambergris therein upon his head.”
The interpreter of Shída looking forth
Beheld the body of the famous prince,
Which they had raised blood-boltered from the sands
To carry toward the army of Khusrau.
The interpreter drew near and cried aloud:—
“O thou illustrious and just-dealing king!
I was no more than Shída's feeble slave,
No warrior, cavalier, or paladin:
O Sháh! forgive me in thy clemency,
And may thy spirit be the joy of heaven.”
“Tell my grandfather,” thus the Sháh replied,
“Before the troops what thou hast seen me do.”
The nobles' hearts and eyes were on the road,
Awaiting Shída's coming from the field.
A cavalier sped o'er the yielding sand,
Bare-headed, weeping scalding tears of blood,
And told Afrásiyáb, who in despair
Plucked out his locks all camphor-white and scattered
Dust on his head. His paladins drew nigh,
And all who saw the Turkman monarch's face
Rent hearts and garments for him; such a wail
Of lamentation went up from the troops
That sun and moon were moved to pity them.
Then said Afrásiyáb in his distress:—
“Henceforth I seek not quiet or repose,
And be ye my companions in my sorrow;
Our sword's point shall not see the sheath, and I
Will ne'er know joy again. Bind we our skirts
Together,*

leave Írán no field or fell.
Account him not a man but dív or beast,
Whose heart shall not be pierced by agony;
Let shamefast tears be never in those eyes
That tears of hot blood fill not at our woe
For that moon-faced and warlike cavalier—
That Cypress-tree upon the streamlet's lip.”
Afrásiyáb wept tears of blood for grief
That leeches cannot cure. The men of name
All loosed their tongues before the king and answered:—
“May God, the just Judge, make this light for thee,
And fill thy foemen's hearts with sore dismay;
Not one of us will tarry day or night
In this our grief and our revenge for Shída,
But raise the war-cry in our soldiers' hearts,
And scatter heads upon the battlefield.
Khusrau, who hath not left an ill undone,
Now addeth feud to feud.”

The warriors

Were broken-hearted, grief possessed the king,
The field was filled with stir and clamouring.