"Choose thou between death at my hand and thine!
Close in my power, my vengeance I may wreak,
Yet hesitate to strike. A hate like mine
Is noble still. Thou hast thy choosing—speak!"
And Ackbar stood. About him all the band
That hailed his captor chieftain, with grave eyes
His answer waited, while that heavy hand
Stretched like a bar between him and the skies.
Straight in the face before him Ackbar sent
A sneer of scorn, and raised his noble head;
"Strike!" and the desert monarch, as content,
Rehung the weapon at his girdle red.
Then Ackbar nearer crept and lifted high
His arms toward the heaven so far and blue
Wherein the sunset rays began to die,
While o'er the band, a deeper silence grew.
"Strike! I am ready! Did'st thou think to see
A son of Gheva spill upon the dust
His noble blood? Did'st hope to have my knee
Bend at thy feet, and with one mighty thrust,
"The life thou hatest flee before thee here?
Shame on thee! on thy race! Art thou the one
Who hast so long his vengeance counted dear?
My hate is greater; I did strike thy son,
"Thy one son, Noumid, dead before my face;
And by the swiftest courser of my stud
Sent to thy door his corpse. And one might trace
Their flight across the desert by his blood.
"Strike! for my hate is greater than thy own!"
But with a frown the Arab moved away,
Walked to a distant palm and stood alone
With eyes that looked where purple mountains lay.
This for an instant; then he turned again
Toward the place where Ackbar waited still,
Walking as one benumbed with bitter pain,
Or with a hateful mission to fulfil.
"Strike! for I hate thee!" Ackbar cried once more,
"Nay, but my hate I cannot find!" said now
His enemy. "Thy freedom I restore,
Live, life were worse than death to such as thou."