The champion arrayed in his buburiyán, mounted Rakush, and advanced towards the Túránian army. Afrásiyáb, when he beheld him in all his terrible strength and vigor, was amazed and disheartened, accompanied, as he was, by Tús, and Gúdarz, and Gurgín, and Gíw, and Báhrám, and Berzín, and Ferhád. The drums and trumpets of Rustem were now heard, and immediately the hostile forces engaged with dagger, sword, and javelin. Dreadful was the onset, and the fury with which the conflict was continued. In truth, so sanguinary and destructive was the battle that Afrásiyáb exclaimed in grief and terror: "If this carnage lasts till the close of day, not a man of my army will remain alive. Have I not one warrior endued with sufficient bravery to oppose and subdue this mighty Rustem? What! not one fit to be rewarded with a diadem, with my own throne and kingdom, which I will freely give to the victor!" Pílsum heard the promise, and was ambitious of earning the reward; but fate decreed it otherwise. His prodigious efforts were of no avail. Alkús was equally unsuccessful, though the bravest of the brave among the Túránian warriors. Encountering Rustem, his brain was pierced by a javelin wielded by the Persian hero, and he fell dead from his saddle. This signal achievement astonished and terrified the Túránians, who, however, made a further despairing effort against the champion and his seven conquering companions, but with no better result than before, and nothing remained to them excepting destruction or flight. Choosing the latter they wheeled round, and endeavored to escape from the sanguinary fate that awaited them. Seeing this precipitate movement of the enemy, Rustem impelled Rakush forward in pursuit, addressing his favorite horse with fondness and enthusiasm:-- "My valued friend--put forth thy speed, This is a time of pressing need; Bear me away amidst the strife, That I may take that despot's life; And with my mace and javelin, flood This dusty plain with foe-man's blood." Excited by his master's cry, The war-horse bounded o'er the plain, So swiftly that he seemed to fly, Snorting with pride, and tossing high His streaming mane. And soon he reached that despot's side, "Now is the time!" the Champion cried, "This is the hour to victory given," And flung his noose--which bound the king Fast for a moment in its ring; But soon, alas! the bond was riven. Haply the Tartar-monarch slipt away, Not doomed to suffer on that bloody day; And freed from thrall, he hurrying led His legions cross the boundary-stream, Leaving his countless heaps of dead To rot beneath the solar beam. Onward he rushed with heart opprest, And broken fortunes; he had quaffed Bright pleasure's cup--but now, unblest, Poison was mingled with the draught!