"Speak," said the chief. Then the smith: "O Antar,
It is I who would serve you! I know, by the soul
Of the poet within you, no envy can bar
The stream of your gratitude,--once let it roll.
Listen. The lightning, your camel that slew,
_I_ caught, and wrought in this sword-blade for you;--
Sword that no foe shall encounter unhurt, or
depart from undying."

Burst from the eyes of Antar a swift rain,--Gratitude's
glittering drops,--as he threw
One shining arm round the smith, like a chain.
Closer the man to his bosom he drew;
Thankful, caressing, with "Great is my debt."
"Yea," said the smith, and his eyelids were wet:
"I knew the sword Dham would unite me with
you in an honor undying."

"So?" asked the chief, as his thumb-point at will
Silently over the sword's edge played.
--"Ay!" said the smith, "but there's one thing, still:
Who is the smiter, shall smite with this blade?"
Jealous, their eyes met; and fury awoke.
"_I_ am the smiter!" Antar cried. One stroke
Rolled the smith's head from his neck, and gave
him remembrance undying.

"Seek now who may, no search will avail:
No man the mate of this weapon shall own!"
Yet, in his triumph, the chieftain made wail: