The indignant and unfortunate bard escaped from Ghizni by night, on foot and alone, for his friends dared not incur the enmity of the king by rendering him any assistance. Ayaz alone had the generous courage to brave the Shāh’s displeasure by aiding the refugee. He sent a trusty slave after him, who soon overtook him, and giving him the horse and a sum of money and other little comforts for his journey, besought him in the name of Ayaz to hasten out of the territory of Shāh Mahmūd if he valued his life.
MŪHTESHIM.
In the meantime reports of the vizier’s animosity and of the sultan’s cowardice were spread all over the country, exciting universal detestation of the king and his minister. The accounts of the poet’s misfortunes and the king’s injustice reached Mūhteshim, the prince of Kohistan, about the time the fugitive approached his seat of government. This prince was the dear friend of Shāh Mahmūd, and bound to him by ties of gratitude for countless favors, but he hesitated not to show his respect for genius, and he sent a deputation of learned and distinguished men to meet Firdusī and invite him to the royal presence. In the midst of this flattering and honorable reception Mūhteshim learned that the offended poet intended to publish a satirical work, holding up to the detestation of the world the treachery of Mahmūd, and he endeavored to dissuade him from this act of revenge, which he considered unworthy of the greatest literary genius of the age. The poet afterward sent him an hundred indignant couplets, that the prince might destroy them himself. Firdusī stated in a letter sent with the lines that, although he dreaded not the anger of Mahmūd, still, out of grateful friendship for the generous Mūhteshim, he gave up the cutting rebuke. The closing paragraph states that—
“On thy account, most amiable prince, do I now consent to transfer my just revenge from this vain world to a higher court.”
Mūhteshim presented Firdusī with a goodly sum of money and forwarded him on his journey, fearful lest the sultan’s rage or the vizier’s malice might overtake and ruin him.
This proved to be a wise precaution, for the king had discovered a sarcastic epigram which Firdusī had written on the wall of the great mosque the night of his departure, and on the next day Ayaz delivered to the furious monarch the insulting letter which the poet had left with him for that purpose, and a large reward was offered for the apprehension of the fugitive. At length, however, the sultan received a long letter from his friend Mūhteshim, who related his meeting with Firdusī, now, in his old age, a penniless wanderer, after having devoted the best years of his life in the constant exercise of his great talents for the execution of his king’s wishes, and gently reproached the Shāh for allowing himself to be imposed upon by the evil advice of malicious courtiers; he also informed him of the forgiving spirit the poet had manifested in destroying his own brilliant satire which was composed at the monarch’s expense, and closed the letter by quoting the couplet which Firdusī had used in the letter to himself.
The complaints from his subjects also began to come to the royal ears, and all of this, together with the reproaches of his own conscience, produced in his mind a strange combination of grief and rage, of indignation and regret. He disgraced the malicious vizier, and fined him sixty thousand drachms of gold, the same amount which he had prevented him from paying to Firdusī, and deeply regretted his own injustice to the gifted bard; but still, he could not forgive the cutting satire of the letter which had been brought him by Ayaz, in which the poet had taunted him with his low birth as being one of the causes of his cowardice and meanness.
DEATH OF FIRDUSĪ.
Firdusī was protected by the Arabian government, and after some years returned and lived with his family at Tus, but he was old, grieved and broken down, and at last he died in his quiet home, at the age of eighty-three. In the meantime Shāh Mahmūd, hearing of his return to Tus, and anxious to render justice, though tardily, to the man he had wronged, sent an envoy with sixty thousand drachms of gold, together with quantities of silks, brocades, velvets, and other costly presents, to Firdusī as a peace offering. But as the royal train of loaded camels entered one gate of the city a mournful procession went out of another, and followed the dead poet to the place of his burial.
The Shāh’s ambassadors offered the presents intended for Firdusī to his only daughter, but she possessed her father’s spirit, and haughtily dismissed the courtiers, rejecting their gifts with proud disdain.
The Shāh, wishing to make some offering to the memory of the departed poet, ordered the sum which had been intended for him to be expended in erecting a caravansera and bridge in Tus, in accordance with Firdusī’s life-long ambition. These monuments of the poet’s fame and of the king’s tardy justice existed for many years, until destroyed by an invading army of Ousbegs under Obeid Khan.
THE POEM.
This great epic, which was written under royal favor, though its author afterward suffered from royal scorn, is a valuable Persian classic. In the Persian tongue it exists only in manuscript form, and its text was corrupted by ignorant transcribers to such an extent that it excited the indignation of the sultan (a grandson of Timur, who reigned in the fifteenth century), and he collected a vast number of copies of the work; from these he had a transcript made, which was, perhaps, tolerably correct.
But since that time copies have been so greatly multiplied and their contents differ so widely, that it is only by a careful collation and comparison of manuscripts that scholars can hope to arrive at a reasonable degree of correctness. These manuscripts are finely executed and highly ornamental, having the frontispiece and titles beautifully illuminated and sprinkled with gold; the volumes are often profusely illustrated by colored drawings of exquisite finish. They cost about one hundred guineas, or about five hundred and twenty-five dollars each. But although these manuscripts can only be multiplied at such great expense, the original work has lived through eight centuries, and is still the most popular epic in the Persian tongue.
The author of the Shāh Nāmah[237] has often been called the Homer of the East, Firdusī occupying the same position in relation to other Persian poets that Homer has so long held in the West. Like Homer, too, he describes a rude age, where muscular strength and animal courage were chiefly valued. The correspondence is very striking between the old heroic times which were described by Firdusī and Homer, and the pictures which are sometimes given us of the age of European chivalry. It is well known that the Moors carried into Spain the poetry and romance of Arabia and Persia, and some of our best fiction is supposed to be derived from that source.
Although Firdusī wrote in the beginning of the eleventh century, it was not until the twelfth that the romances of chivalry began to amuse the Western world. The “Orlando Innamorato,” a poem by Bayardo, which was afterward improved and paraphrased by Berni, gave life and character to a great number of the stories of chivalry. In a similar way the Shāh Nāmah was largely indebted to the Būstān-Nāmah, which comprised the chronicles, histories, and traditions of the Persians, collected under the patronage of Yezdjird, the last king of the Sassanian race. Like the beautiful Rāmāyana and the martial Mahā-bhārata of the Hindūs, the Shāh Nāmah claims to be a history in rhyme. It is supposed to comprise the annals and achievements of the ancient kings of Persia from Kaiūmers[238] down to the Saracenic invasion and conquest of that empire,[239] an estimated period of more than three thousand six hundred years. But this bold lyric can lay but little more claim to historic accuracy than can the Hindū epics whose gorgeous colorings mock the very name of history. The Shāh Nāmah, like the other Oriental poems, abounds in adventures of the wildest description, in fabulous feats of strength and valor, and the heroines of the Persian bard are as intrepid and beautiful as the maidens who conquered the heroes of Western poetry.
The legends of all nations are rich with terrible dragons, which are vanquished by unconquerable knights. Even England has her St. George, and other countries boast of cavaliers who were equally valiant.
The hero of the Shāh Nāmah is Rustem, the Persian Hercules, and the strong similarity between the myths pertaining to them is another argument in favor of the common origin of various mythologies.[240] The labors of Rustem, however, were only seven, while those of Hercules were twelve. In the Shāh Nāmah, Isfendiyār has his seven labors as well as Rustem, and both succeeded in the overthrow of devouring monsters, and the destruction of talismans and works of enchantment. Isfendiyār is always accompanied, however, by a troop of horsemen, while Rustem performs his exploits alone, being mounted upon his magnificent horse Rakush. This splendid animal will often remind the reader of the horses of Indra, the Hindū “Lord of the Thunderbolt,” or Jove with his “steeds of light,”
“Adorned with manes of gold, and heavenly bright.” Indeed, the boldest heroes of all people rode to battle upon gallant chargers like those of Rhesus, which were “swift as the wind, and white as winter snow.”
The splendid picture of the Northern god would have lost its force without the presence of the fleet-footed Sleipnir, and Neptune were scarcely the king of ocean without his celestial steeds,
Achilles, too, drew the reins over
Būddha is represented, too, as deserting his wife and child, riding upon his coal-black steed, Kanthāka, which was said to be thirty feet in length, and able to clear the high gates of the palace, or the broad rivers that flowed across his pathway, at a single bound.
The Persian poem, like the colossal epics of India, is of such interminable length that the readers of modern times would not be willing to scan the many pages of endless description and hyperbole. We therefore give, in simple phrase, the best incidents of this heroic legend.
CHAPTER XI.
STORY OF THE SHĀH NĀMAH.
SĀM SUWĀR—THE SĪMŪRGH’S NEST—THE FATHER’S DREAM—RŪDABEH—THE MARRIAGE—RUSTEM—THE TŪRĀNIAN INVASION—THE WHITE DEMON.
In the golden age of Persian chivalry there lived a famous warrior by the name of Sām Suwār. He was the son of the great chieftain Narimān, and he was the commander-in-chief of the Persian armies, and not only a valiant hero upon the battlefield, but more than once he had warred against the allied hosts of demons, and come off victorious. He had conquered the furious monster Soham, which was of the color and nature of fire, and, bringing it beneath the obedient rein, he made it his war horse in all his later battles with the demons.
Suwār had an heir born to him, and knowing that a son would inherit his own power and fame, his heart was filled with exultation. But when the child was placed in his arms, this dark-haired Persian warrior was appalled, for the babe, otherwise perfect, had a head of silvery white hair.
The gentle mother gave the child the name of Zāl, but the superstitious people began to whisper that this white-haired child was an evil omen to the house of Suwār. Surely it could bring only calamity into the family. It must be that in some way the child belonged to the demon race, or,
The father bore the sneers and reproaches of the people for a time, and then resolved to abandon the boy upon the mountain crags to be destroyed by beasts of prey. In vain the faithful mother pleaded to be allowed to retain her babe; in vain she promised to keep him in seclusion so sacred that the sight of him should never again offend the father’s eye; her child was torn from her arms, and carried to a distant mountain in the depths of the night, and there deserted by the cruel and superstitious father.
THE SĪMŪRGH’S NEST.
An inaccessible cliff of the Alborz mountains is said to be the home of the Sīmūrgh,[242] a mammoth bird with golden plumage, who carries elephants to her nest for her birdlings to feed upon. Far beyond the reach of man, this wondrous nest is hidden amidst the white cliffs, which are threaded thickly with veins of golden quartz, while around the base of the structure there gleam the stones of fire—the amethyst, the topaz and ruby, and in the rocks not far away the sunset fires have left their glow in the heart of the opal. The bird of golden plumage loves these precious stones, for they flash back the fire of her eye, and seem to warm her heart with their gleaming beauty. The night was dark, for even the stars were hidden behind the floating clouds that told of a coming storm, then
The bird listened to the voice, and peering down between the mountain crags and rocky cliffs, she saw a man with coward heart leaving a tender babe upon one of the foot-hills. Her mother-heart beat faster while she waited a moment listening to the coming storm, and then the strong wings moved upward through the darkness, and circling round in stately flight, she swept nearer and nearer to the desolate babe. Down she came at last, and the little one looked up with wondering eyes upon the great mass of plumage that seemed to have been borne to him upon the wings of the coming storm, and the boy smiled and reached out his baby hands toward his new-found friend. The tender mother-bird fastened her talons carefully in his little dress, and floated away past mountain stream and rocky crags, beyond the foothills and the higher peaks, until she reached the wondrous nest hidden amidst the stones of fire. A sweet, familiar note caused the nestlings to cling more closely together, and here, in the newly made space, the banished child was laid, and his shelter from the cruel storm that night was the golden feathers of the Sīmūrgh.
When the sunlight touched the white cliffs and lighted up the fires in ruby and opal, the great bird was awakened by a strange cry beneath her wing, and she remembered the human nestling within her habitation. Then, like the sacred bird of Jove, she rises from her nest, and
Not as a guide to the tent of Achilles does the Sīmūrgh wheel her lofty flight, but to find food for the helpless babe within her walls. With dainty bits within her bill she comes again to her mountain home, and the stranger babe is fed before her own young have broken their fast. The Sīmūrgh’s nestlings learned from the mother-bird the lessons of mercy and love, and soon on tender wing they too brought dainties to the banished child, and year after year he lived in the Sīmūrgh’s home, or played amidst the rough jewels in the crags around her nest.
THE FATHER’S DREAM.
The years went by with muffled feet, bringing no balm to the heart of the bereaved mother. The cruel way in which her child had been torn from her arms by the unnatural father, to suffer a still more cruel fate, had left a wound in her heart that her husband’s later kindness had no power to heal. The father, too, was ashamed of his own brutality, but too cowardly to confess his fault, no word of repentance had ever passed his lips. The only sign of remorse was seen upon his head, for the dark locks of the Persian chieftain had grown as silvery white as the hair of the banished child. His sleep was disturbed, and he was haunted night after night by strange and troubled dreams. One night there flashed before his vision a gallant youth of martial bearing, who rode at the head of a troop of horsemen, with banners flying before him, and coming into the warrior’s presence, he cried:
Suwār awoke with a scream and called the astrologers around him. They declared that the boy was still alive, and in the early morning the father went to the lonely mountain, and climbing into its cliffs as far as possible, he bemoaned his child and prayed for his return. His cry went up to the wondrous nest amidst the stones of fire, and the Sīmūrgh shook her golden plumage as she looked lovingly down upon the white-haired child that played with unpolished gems upon the cliffs beneath her.
Rising from her nest, she nestled down beside him, and while he stroked her feathers, she caressed him with her beak, and said: “I have fed and protected thee, but now the Persian warrior has come for his boy, and I must give thee up.” The child wept and flung his arms around the soft neck of his foster mother, but the Sīmūrgh told him it were better so, and taking from her wing one golden plume, she gave it to him with the promise that she would not desert him. “Take this,” said she, “and when thou art in danger put the feather upon the fire, and I will instantly come to thine aid.”
Then the Sīmūrgh took the boy carefully in her talons and in graceful circles she slowly swept down toward the wondering father. “Receive thy son,” said the wondrous bird. “He is worthy of a throne and diadem.” Then the repentant father gladly caught his rescued boy in his arms, and bore him exultingly homeward, where he placed him in the glad arms of his mother, who wept tears of joy over the white-haired child. The beautiful plume was laid carefully away as one of the treasures of the household, to be used by the boy only in times of greatest need.
When the Persian king Minūchir heard the story, he sent to Suwār a splendid troop of horsemen, led by the heir to the throne, and they conveyed the royal congratulations to the warrior and his son, and escorted them into the royal presence. Here
The delighted king then presented the boy with Arabian horses and gorgeous armor, with gold and rich garments, and appointed the father to be the ruler of Kabūl, Zabūl, and Ind. Zāl accompanied his father upon the return homeward, and then he was placed under the care of renowned instructors at Zabūlistān.
RŪDABEH.
While the Persian youth was reaching the age of manhood, in the delightful pursuits of art and science, he was also occasionally intrusted with the care of the province during the father’s absence. Kabūl, one of the provinces which the Persian king had assigned to Suwār, had been ruled over by a chieftain named Mihrāb, who was descended from Zohāk, and this chieftain still retained a subordinate position in the government by paying an annual tribute to Suwār.
Mihrāb had a beautiful daughter named Rūdabeh, and although she was kept in the most careful seclusion, still the fame of her great loveliness was spread among the neighboring princes.
Zāl was not insensible to the charms he had heard so vividly described, but he remembered that Mihrāb was descended from Zohāk, the Serpent King,[245] and he knew that if he made any advances toward the fair daughter of the fatal line he should provoke the rage of his father, and also of the Persian monarch Minūchir.
Mihrāb had occasion to communicate with Zāl, and on his return homeward his wife, Sindokht, inquired after the white-haired youth, asking what he was like in form and feature, and what account he gave of his stay with the Sīmūrgh.
Mihrāb described his host in the warmest terms of admiration, telling of his valor, his accomplishments, and his manly beauty, his only defect being the strange crown of silvery hair.
The beautiful princess was present, and, with her dark eyes fixed upon her father’s face, she drank in every word of his eulogy, and her heart warmed toward the stranger. When she retired to her own apartments, she confided to her maid the fact that she was deeply impressed with the description she had heard, and a few days later she declared to the attendant that she was deeply in love with the stranger, and besought the maid’s assistance.
The servant was startled and frightened by this confession, and remonstrated with her beautiful mistress upon the absurdity of her position:
But her remonstrance was in vain, the willful Persian beauty had set her heart upon a man whom she had never seen,[246] and she quietly answered:
When the attendants learned that the princess was so deeply in earnest they loyally entered into her feelings far enough to aid her in every possible way in bringing about a meeting with the man she loved.
It was springtime in the beautiful vales of Persia, and the earth was rich with many colored flowers, while the breath of hyacinths and lilies of the valley floated upon the air. The glittering pheasant moved through the undergrowth, and the bulbul sang his love song in the lofty trees.
A party of maidens strayed near the tent of Zāl in their earnest quest for the most beautiful roses to be found in that sunny vale. Already their baskets were laden with fragrance, but still they lingered, until the prince asked his attendants why these girls presumed to invade his territory. He was told that the damsels were sent by the beautiful princess of Kabūlistān from the palace of Mihrāb to gather roses for her boudoir. His eyes brightened, and calling a servant to bear his bow and arrows, he rose carelessly and started for a ramble along the winding river. He was not far from the maidens, when he sent an arrow through a beautiful bird sailing above them. The bird fell at their very feet, and his servant was sent to bring it.
When he approached them they inquired who this skillful archer was. He answered, “Know you not that this is Zāl, the greatest warrior ever known.” The maidens then told him that they belonged to a beautiful princess, the star in the palace at Mihrāb, and cautiously inquired why, as these young people were of equal rank, a marriage might not be arranged between them. The servant reported the question to his master, and was sent back with royal presents for Rūdabeh.
The maids returned exultant, but still the way was full of peril, and political difficulties seemed to forbid even an interview between the lovers. There was, however, a beautiful summer retreat seldom visited in the absence of the Persian king, which was luxuriously furnished and adorned with paintings of Persia’s most illustrious chieftains. It stood midway between the two territories, and to this resort the princess and her maids retired while on a pleasure excursion, and Zāl was duly invited by the attendants to visit them as soon as the stars came out.
The shadows of evening had fallen upon the rose gardens, and the air was heavy with their fragrance, when the young warrior cautiously approached the balcony from which he heard a sweet voice singing. Soon the low musical tones of a manly voice were borne upon the breeze as he softly chanted—
And soon the singer stood by the woman he sought. They passed hand in hand within the gorgeous chambers, where the porphyry pillars upheld the rich fretwork of gold in the roof, and the vast illuminated halls were silent and bright, save the gentle music of the waters that were rippling from many a jasper fountain. The royal abode was glowing with softly colored lights, which reflected the rare beauty of painting and statuary, but Zāl could scarcely see what art had done, for his eyes and thoughts were absorbed with the witching radiance of his love. Long they remained rapt in admiration of each other. At length the warrior rose and exclaimed: “It becomes us not to be forgetful of the path of prudence. How will my father rave with anger when he hears of this adventure? How will King Minūchir indignantly reproach me for this dream?—this waking dream of rapture! But I call high heaven to witness that whoever may oppose my sacred vows, still I am thine, affianced thine, forever.”
And Rūdabeh answered,
“Thou hast won my heart, and kings may sue in vain; thou art alone my warrior and my love.”
Then Zāl, with fond adieus, softly descended from the balcony and hastened to his tent.
The loyal son wrote a letter to his father, frankly telling him the story of his love, and asking his sympathy and co-operation. To his great joy, these were promptly accorded, and he wrote an exultant letter to the princess, informing her of the fact. But the girl was detected by the queen in carrying messages and presents to the princess, and the queen approached her daughter, who frankly told the story, and it was thus communicated to Mihrāb, whose rage knew no bounds. The infuriated king drew his sword, and would have rushed to his daughter’s room and slain her upon the spot, if his wife had not thrown herself at his feet and pleaded that time at least might be given her.
The daughter was then summoned to her father’s presence, but she disdained to come as a culprit or a suppliant, therefore she fearlessly appeared in the royal presence, and proudly told him of the valor of her betrothed. She retired from his presence without harm, but when Minūchir, king of Persia, was apprised of the loves of Zāl and Rūdabeh, another storm broke over the heads of the royal lovers, for he anticipated only the ruin of his kingdom if so valiant a warrior as Zāl joined his fortunes with a member of the house of the Serpent King.
When Suwār returned, however, from his successful expedition against the demons, he ingeniously pleaded his son’s cause before the king:
But while approving cordially of the work already done, he gave the warrior a new commission, which was no less than the destruction of Kabūl by fire and sword, especially the house of Mihrāb, and declared that the ruler of the serpent-race and all of his adherents were to be put to death. In vain the horror-stricken warrior pleaded the cause of mercy, the king’s vindictive intentions were well known, and the greatest consternation reigned at Kabūl, especially in the family of Mihrāb.
Mihrāb himself a tyrant, and consequently a coward, could see no way of avoiding the king’s wrath except by putting his wife and daughter to death.
At last in his desperation, Suwār sent an earnest letter to the king, and sent it by the hand of Zāl, who thus obtained permission to plead his own cause. The king finally consulted the astrologers, who informed him that the marriage was most propitious, and from it would be born a hero of matchless strength and valor—the champion of Persia. So at last the faithful lover bore back to Rūdabeh the joyous tidings that the greatest obstacle was removed, after which it was an easy matter to pacify Mihrāb, and the approbation of all parties was finally secured.
THE MARRIAGE.
The marriage was celebrated at the beautiful royal retreat where the lovers first met, and it was a scene of unequaled magnificence. There were splendid horses with gold and silver housings, and multitudes of richly attired damsels bearing golden trays of jewels and perfumes. There were camels laden with the richest brocades and velvets of the East; there were Indian swords and elephants; there were bowers of roses and orange blossoms, and garlands of fragrant lilies, and finally there was a golden crown and throne. Having consented to the union, the Persian king taxed the treasury to the utmost to make it the grandest wedding in the land.
After several days had been devoted to the festivities, the newly married pair settled down amid the roses and fruits of their vine-wreathed home. From the white crown of a distant mountain down to the river that flowed by their garden temples, the very air seemed tinted with a golden haze, while every breeze was laden with rich perfume.
The time passed blithely and rapidly to the young chieftain and his beautiful wife; but one night there was darkness in the garden temples, and gloom in the thickets of roses where the night-bird trilled his sorrowful song to the drooping flowers. There was darkness upon the inner room, for the shadow of death was falling upon court and hall—the fair young wife lay in terrible peril, from which there seemed to be no rescue. The court physicians held council in the adjoining room, while the agonized husband bent over his suffering wife.
At last he bethought him of the Sīmūrgh’s plume, and, hastily unlocking the casket, the golden feather was laid upon the fire. His heart stood still while he waited and listened, and lo, there came the rushing sound of a tempest, as the wing of the Sīmūrgh gleamed through the darkness, and she stood beside her foster child. Zāl’s eyes lighted up with hope and gladness as he threw his arms around her soft golden neck, and leaned upon the gorgeous plumage. Then she bent her head caressingly toward his face and whispered a few directions into his ear. Immediately her command was obeyed and the court physicians were interrupted in their solemn conclave, for the cry of a newly-born babe was wafted to their ears, and the young wife was shedding happy tears in the arms of her joyous husband.
RUSTEM.
The boy who was born that night was a herculean babe, and he became the champion of Persia.[248] As the years went by his marvelous strength became the wonder of the nation, and the especial pride of his father and the old chieftain Suwār.
Before Rustem reached the age of manhood the king of Persia died, and the kingdom fell into the hands of weaker princes. The Tartar chieftain, Afrāsiyāb, improved the opportunity which he long had sought, of making an invasion upon the rich provinces of Persia, and collecting an immense army he marched to the front, under the pretext of avenging old wrongs.
The Persian hosts were in confusion, for the Tartar chief was continually threatening the border. The people looked to Zāl as their natural preserver, but Zāl decided to place his boy at the head of the army, for although very young, Rustem had been carefully trained in warlike exercises, and the long line of warrior blood from whence he came, thrilled his veins with martial valor.
All the horses of the imperial stables were brought forth, that the young commander might take from them a steed to bear him through the campaign. But Rustem was not content to choose from these, for his eye fell upon a wild horse of wondrous strength and beauty which was the offspring of a demon. After a fearful struggle the magnificent animal was conquered, and placed beneath saddle and rein, when the young warrior rode into the conflict.
THE TŪRĀNIAN INVASION.
Mihrāb, the ruler of Kabūl, was the leader of one wing of the Persian army, and Gustāhem of the other, while Rustem led the front, and the glorious banner of Kāvah[249] was flung to the breeze. The Tūrānian king rode in black armor at the head of his dark legions, while his ablest generals led the wings and protected the rear of his vast army.
There was one terrific onslaught in which it seemed as if heaven and earth had closed in deadly conflict. The clattering of hoofs, the shrill roar of the trumpets and the rattle of brazen drums were mingled with the cries of dying men, while the glittering spear hastened to the deadly work, and the Tartar king believed that the imperial crown of Persia was just within his reach.
When the tide of battle ebbed for a moment, Rustem shouted to his father that he intended to engage the hostile monarch in single combat, but Zāl endeavored to dissuade him from so hopeless a task.