There was no pause in the sound of the trumpets, no stay in the wild flight of the arrows, as the dreadful work went on, and the dripping swords were bathed with the crimson tide of shame.
The shades of night came down ere the fate of the battle was decided, but the assaulting party had suffered most, and in another hour of conflict the friends of Majnūn had been undone. With the coming of the morning light the assault was renewed, and the desert rang again with the sounds of war; all along the long line glittered the sword and buckler, the helmet and spear; swords clashed and the desert sands were wet again with the blood of the fallen. At last the tribe of Lailī’s sire gave way, and Noufal won the bitter fight, though many of his bravest men lay bleeding on the burning sand.
“And now the elders of that tribe appear,
And thus implore the victor. Chieftain, hear!
The work of slaughter is complete;
Thou seest our power destroyed; allow
Us wretched suppliants at thy feet
To humbly ask for mercy now.
How many warriors press the plain?
Khanjer and spear have laid them low;