Thus the tide of battle ebbed and flowed, while thousands were falling on either side, until the shades of night came down upon the fearful scene. Then a council of the chiefs on either side was called, and it was decreed that the next day the question of victory should be decided by single combat between the leaders of the forces. Thus was Rustem brought into close conflict with his only child. Father and son, unknown to each other, struggled in awful strife, while the treacherous Tartar chiefs looked gladly on, glorying in the thought that they would be rid of either a dangerous foe or a still more dangerous rival—possibly both. The younger blood and stronger sinews of Sohrāb won the first victories, but Rustem sprang again upon him and inflicted a fatal blow. As Sohrāb fell he felt that his wound was fatal, and he cried out, “I came here hoping to find my father, but have found only death instead.” “Who is thy father?” demanded the Persian champion. “My father is Rustem, and my mother is the daughter of the King of Samenegān.” The words went through the father’s heart like a poisoned spear, and he fell almost unconscious beside his murdered boy. “Ungird my mail,” faltered the dying warrior, “and behold the bracelet my mother bound upon my arm. An instinct was ever at my heart that thou wert Rustem, but the Tartar chiefs ever and always told me nay—that thou wast not in the fight—that only thy servant led thy troops.” The sight of the amulet was a fearful blow to Rustem, for it proved at once the identity of his murdered son, and the falsehood of his treacherous wife. “Prostrate he falls. ‘By my unnatural hand My son, my son is slain—and from the land Uprooted.’ Frantic in the dust, his hair He rends in agony and deep despair. The western sun had disappeared in gloom, And still the Champion wept his cruel doom. His wondering legions marked the long delay, And seeing Rakush riderless astray, The rumor quick to Persia’s monarch sped, And there described the mighty Rustem dead. The king’s chosen men were sent to find the warrior, whether he be slain or wounded. They found him in his terrible grief, and the war-spirit seemed dead in his bosom.