And turn’d away, and spoke to his own soul:—
‘Ah me! I muse what this young fox may mean.
False, wily, boastful are these Tartar boys.
For if I now confess this thing he asks,
And hide it not, but say—Rustum is here—
He will not yield indeed, nor quit our foes,
But he will find some pretext not to fight,
And praise my fame, and proffer courteous gifts—
A belt or sword perhaps—and go his way.
And on a feast-day in Afrasiab’s hall,