This was a crafty lie. Sohrab believed it. He left his foe, and went proudly back to the cheering ranks of his friends. Careless he waited, and made no preparation for the next fight. But Rustem went to a stream, and bathed his limbs, and prayed for the strength that once had been his.
The two then met again. Sohrab scornfully exclaimed, "You dare to meet me, do you? Are you looking for a death with honour, because you have been beaten so often? But you care not, old man, for the truth, and perhaps you have another trick to try. Twice already have I spared you just because you are old."
"You are young and haughty," replied Rustem, "but perhaps my aged arm will yet subdue your pride."
Then they rushed to the fight, tugging and bending, and twisting their great limbs, until Rustem with a mighty effort grasped Sohrab. Bending his back, he hurled him to the ground. But he knew that he was not strong enough to keep him there, so he quickly drew his dagger and stabbed him.
Sohrab writhed in pain as he said, "Do not now boast in your pride; I have brought this upon myself. Fate ordered that you should kill me. O, if only I could have seen my father! My mother told me how to recognize him, and I sought for him. My only wish is to see him, and here I die alone! But do not hope to escape him! Wherever you flee, Rustem in sorrow and anger will pursue you."
Rustem shook with horror at these words. His brain reeled; at last with a groan he cried, "Prove you are mine! For I am Rustem!"
Sohrab stared wildly at him, and said, "If you are Rustem, you have indeed a cruel heart, else you would have known me long ago. Take from my arm its coat of mail, and see there the golden bracelet you left with my mother."
Rustem tore off the mail; at the sight of the gleaming bracelet he fell to the ground, crying, "By my own hand my son, my son is killed!"
Lying in the dust, with groans, in his despair he tore his hair and clothing.