We simple were; one essence was the source of all. Nor head, nor foot had we; one pristine lot did fall. 375 One substance held us; we were clear as is the sun; No knots or gnurs within us, free as water’s run. On taking fleshly form, that simple essence, then, Became divided, split, like shadows in each glen. Make low the hills and hillocks, level make the plain; No shadow’s left; the whole becomes one scene again. With pleasure I’d this matter clearer put, and joy. But tender consciences I seek not to annoy. Abstruser points there are, as keen as sword in fight. If reason’s shield thou hast not, refuge take in flight. 380 My arguments contest not, unless well prepared. Sharp blade will cut; it pities not; no life is spared. I sheathe my sword of argument,--will not make assault. Lest muddlers read me wrong, and say ’tis I’m at fault. We come now back again, to follow up our tale, To keep our faith with readers, feminine and male; And say again, the people rose up as one man, Demanding who should work out our dead Vazīr’s plan. One legion-captain forward came, out of the twelve, That grieving people’s furrowed field anew to delve. 385 Said he: “Behold! successor am I to the saint. In Jesu’s stead I’m regent, by his own constraint. You see this scroll. ’Tis evidence of what I say: The dead Vazīr’s successorship is mine to-day!”[114] A second captain started up, as from ambush; Contested all those words; his own claim then did push. Forth from his bosom he another scroll produced, And then the people’s wrath flamed high; not soon reduced. The other captains, too,--each his own train at back,— Unsheathed their swords, and threatened both their skulls to crack. 390 Then each one of the twelve, his sword and scroll in hand, Upon the others set, like baited bull on brand. The slain were strewn in heaps of many hundred men, Their heads were piled in pyramids, by thousands ten. Their blood was shed in torrents, flowing on the plain. The dust arose in clouds through this commotion vain. The seeds of discord sown by that knave’s treacherous hand, Had now produced their harvest, fatal to the land. The nuts he cracked were skulls; their kernels, human brains. The bodies slain through him held precious souls in chains. 395