Since the chase began, down to the blind brutality of the battue (which wiped it out) chivalry has been a trait of the genuine sportsman. In the golden legend of hunter’s generosity should be inscribed for ever the tale—the true tale as I believe it to be—of the Moslem prince Sebectighin, who rose from slave-birth to the greatest of Persian thrones—and more honour to him, notwithstanding the slur which Firdusi, stung by Mahmoud’s want of appreciation, cast, in a foolish moment, on his father’s origin. Sebectighin was a horseman in the service of the Sultan and as a preparation for greater things he found a vent for his pent-up energies in the chase. One day he remarked a deer with her little fawn peacefully grazing in a glade of the forest. He galloped to the spot, and in less than a second he had seized the fawn, which, after binding its legs, he placed across his saddle-bows. Thus he started to go home, but looking back, he saw the mother following, with every mark of grief. Sebectighin’s heart was touched; he loosened the fawn and restored it to its dam. And in the night he had a vision in his dreams of One who said to him, “The kindness and compassion which thou hast this day shown to a distressed animal has been approved of in the presence of God; therefore in the records of Providence the kingdom of Ghusni is marked as a reward against thy name. Let not greatness destroy thy virtue, but continue thy benevolence to man.” Among the Afghan ballads collected by James Darmesteter, of which it has been aptly said that they give an admirable idea of Homer in a state of becoming, there is one composed in a gentler mood than the songs of war and carnage which has a gazelle for heroine and the Prophet as _Deus ex machina_. As there is no translation of it into English I have attempted the following version:— “The Son of Abu Jail he set a snare for a gazelle, Without a thought along she sped, and in the snare she fell. ‘O woe is me!’ she weeping cried, ‘that I to look forgot! Fain would I live for my dear babes, but hope, alas! is not.’ Then to the Merciful she made this short and fervent prayer: ‘I left two little fawns at home; Lord, keep them in Thy care!’ The son of Abu Jail he came, in haste and glee he ran, ‘Ah, now I’ve got you in my net, and who to save you can?’ He grasped her by her tender throat, his fearsome sword did draw, When lo! the Lord held back his hand! The Prophet’s self he saw! ‘The world was saved for love of thee, save for thy pity’s sake!’ So breathed the trembling doe, and then the holy Prophet spake: ‘Abu, my friend, this doe let go, and hark to my appeal; She has two tender fawns at home who pangs of hunger feel, ‘Let her go back one hour to them, no longer will she stay, And when she comes, O heartless man, then mayest thou have thy way! But if, by chance, she should not come, then by my faith will I Be unto thee a bonded slave until the day I die.’