Still, when a chief dies bravely, We bind with green one wrist— Green for the brave, for heroes One crimson thread we twist. Say ye, Oh gallant Hillmen, For these, whose life has fled, Which is the fitting colour, The green one or the red?’
‘Our brethren, laid in honoured graves, may wear Their green reward,’ each noble savage said; ‘To these, whom hawks and hungry wolves shall tear, Who dares deny the red?’
Thus conquering hate, and steadfast to the right, Fresh from the heart that haughty verdict came; Beneath a waning moon, each spectral height Rolled back its loud acclaim.
Once more the chief gazed keenly Down on those daring dead; From his good sword their heart's blood Crept to that crimson thread. Once more he cried, ‘The judgment, Good friends, is wise and true, But though the red be given, Have we not more to do?
These were not stirred by anger, Nor yet by lust made bold; Renown they thought above them, Nor did they look for gold. To them their leader's signal Was as the voice of God: Unmoved, and uncomplaining, The path it showed they trod.
As, without sound or struggle, The stars unhurrying march, Where Allah's finger guides them, Through yonder purple arch, These Franks, sublimely silent, Without a quickened breath, Went in the strength of duty Straight to their goal of death.
‘If I were now to ask you To name our bravest man, Ye all at once would answer, They called him Mehrab Khan. He sleeps among his fathers, Dear to our native land, With the bright mark he bled for Firm round his faithful hand.
‘The songs they sing of Rustum Fill all the past with light; If truth be in their music, He was a noble knight. But were those heroes living And strong for battle still, Would Mehrab Khan or Rustum Have climbed, like these, the hill?’
And they replied, ‘Though Mehrab Khan was brave, As chief, he chose himself what risks to run; Prince Rustum lied, his forfeit life to save, Which these had never done.’
‘Enough!’ he shouted fiercely; ‘Doomed though they be to hell, Bind fast the crimson trophy Round both wrists—bind it well. Who knows but that great Allah May grudge such matchless men, With none so decked in heaven, To the fiends' flaming den?’