Then swift as a shooting star The curved and shining blade Of Iskander's scimetar From its sheath, with jewels bright, Shot, as he thundered: "Write!" And the trembling Scribe obeyed, And wrote in the fitful glare Of the bivouac fire apart, With the chill of the midnight air On his forehead white and bare, And the chill of death in his heart.
Then again Iskander cried: "Now follow whither I ride, For here thou must not stay. Thou shalt be as my dearest friend, And honors without end Shall surround thee on every side, And attend thee night and day." But the sullen Scribe replied "Our pathways here divide; Mine leadeth not thy way."
And even as he spoke Fell a sudden scimetar-stroke, When no one else was near; And the Scribe sank to the ground, As a stone, pushed from the brink Of a black pool, might sink With a sob and disappear; And no one saw the deed; And in the stillness around No sound was heard but the sound Of the hoofs of Iskander's steed, As forward he sprang with a bound.
Then onward he rode and afar, With scarce three hundred men, Through river and forest and fen, O'er the mountains of Argentar; And his heart was merry within, When he crossed the river Drin, And saw in the gleam of the morn The White Castle Ak-Hissar, The city Croia called, The city moated and walled, The city where he was born,— And above it the morning star.
Then his trumpeters in the van On their silver bugles blew, And in crowds about him ran Albanian and Turkoman, That the sound together drew. And he feasted with his friends, And when they were warm with wine, He said: "O friends of mine, Behold what fortune sends, And what the fates design! King Amurath commands That my father's wide domain, This city and all its lands, Shall be given to me again."
Then to the Castle White He rode in regal state, And entered in at the gate In all his arms bedight, And gave to the Pasha Who ruled in Croia The writing of the King, Sealed with his signet ring. And the Pasha bowed his head, And after a silence said: "Allah is just and great! I yield to the will divine, The city and lands are thine; Who shall contend with fate?"
Anon from the castle walls The crescent banner falls, And the crowd beholds instead, Like a portent in the sky, Iskander's banner fly, The Black Eagle with double head; And a shout ascends on high, For men's souls are tired of the Turks, And their wicked ways and works, That have made of Ak-Hissar A city of the plague; And the loud, exultant cry That echoes wide and far Is: "Long live Scanderbeg!"
It was thus Iskander came Once more unto his own; And the tidings, like the flame Of a conflagration blown By the winds of summer, ran, Till the land was in a blaze, And the cities far and near, Sayeth Ben Joshua Ben Meir, In his Book of the Words of the Days, "Were taken as a man Would take the tip of his ear."