To me Tahmīneh bore her only child.
That was a daughter.”
Then the trumpets clang announced the attack of the invader, as the Tartar horde sprang into the fight. The troops of horse and foot were blended in the wild disorder of Oriental battle, and the very earth seemed to shake beneath the shock, while the dust driven in dark eddies whirled high in air, obscuring the very face of heaven.
The bright steel armor glittered over all the plain, but alas, it covered the forms of fallen heroes as often as it shielded the daring hearts of living riders. The light flashed from the gold emblazoned shields as the glittering spears struck the bright surface, until it seemed as if the clouds were pouring showers of sparkling amber upon the plain.
Thus the tide of battle ebbed and flowed, while thousands were falling on either side, until the shades of night came down upon the fearful scene. Then a council of the chiefs on either side was called, and it was decreed that the next day the question of victory should be decided by single combat between the leaders of the forces. Thus was Rustem brought into close conflict with his only child. Father and son, unknown to each other, struggled in awful strife, while the treacherous Tartar chiefs looked gladly on, glorying in the thought that they would be rid of either a dangerous foe or a still more dangerous rival—possibly both. The younger blood and stronger sinews of Sohrāb won the first victories, but Rustem sprang again upon him and inflicted a fatal blow. As Sohrāb fell he felt that his wound was fatal, and he cried out, “I came here hoping to find my father, but have found only death instead.” “Who is thy father?” demanded the Persian champion. “My father is Rustem, and my mother is the daughter of the King of Samenegān.”
The words went through the father’s heart like a poisoned spear, and he fell almost unconscious beside his murdered boy. “Ungird my mail,” faltered the dying warrior, “and behold the bracelet my mother bound upon my arm. An instinct was ever at my heart that thou wert Rustem, but the Tartar chiefs ever and always told me nay—that thou wast not in the fight—that only thy servant led thy troops.”
The sight of the amulet was a fearful blow to Rustem, for it proved at once the identity of his murdered son, and the falsehood of his treacherous wife.
“Prostrate he falls. ‘By my unnatural hand
My son, my son is slain—and from the land
Uprooted.’ Frantic in the dust, his hair