Rustam Loses Rakhsh

From the farmer's telling I will weave a tale, stitched together from the words of old. The priest recalled it in this way: that one day, at dawn, Rustam, heavy in heart, set out to hunt. He girded his belt and filled his quiver with arrows. He turned his face toward the borders of Turan, like a fierce lion seeking prey. When he reached the frontier of Turan, he saw a plain filled from end to end with wild asses. The crown giver's face lit up like a flower; he laughed and spurred Rakhsh forward. With arrow and bow, with mace and lasso, he brought down some of the game across the plain. From brushwood, thorns, and tree branches he kindled a roaring fire. When the fire had spread, the mighty one ripped up a tree to serve as a spit. He skewered a wild ass upon the tree; in his grip it weighed no more than a bird's feather. When it was roasted, he tore it apart and ate it, and cracked its bones clean of their marrow. He lay down and rested from his labors, while Rakhsh grazed and roamed in the meadow. Seven or eight Turkish riders passed across that hunting ground. They spotted a horse in the meadow and circled about the riverbank. When they found Rakhsh out on the plain, they hurried to bind him up. They caught him and rushed him off to the city, each of them coveting Rakhsh for himself. When Rustam woke from his sweet sleep, he had need of his trained mount. He looked out across the meadow, but nowhere could he see the horse. Grief seized him when he could not find his steed; bewildered, he hurried toward Samangan. He said to himself: now, running on foot, where can I go from this dark disgrace? What will the warriors say, that his horse was stolen, that the great champion slept like this and lost it? Now I must go on in helplessness, and surrender my heart entirely to sorrow. Now I must strap on my weapons and belt; perhaps somewhere I will pick up his trail. So he went on, full of grief and toil, his body in torment, his heart in anguish.