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 ‘Allah forbid!’ exclaimed the Khan.
‘Rid me of him at once, O man!’
‘Nay,’ Hamza said, “no spell of mine
Can slay that cursed thing of thine.
Leave feast and wine, go forth and drink
Water of healing on the brink
Where clear and cold from mountain snows,
The Nahr el Zeben downward flows.
Six moons remain, then come to me;
May Allah's pity go with thee! “
Awestruck, from feast and wine the Khan
Went forth where Nahr el Zeben ran.
Roots were his food, the desert dust
His bed, the water quenched his thirst;
And when the sixth moon's scimetar
Curved sharp above the evening star,
He sought again the santon's door,
Not weak and trembling as before,
But strong of limb and clear of brain;
‘Behold,’ he said, ‘the fiend is slain.’
‘Nay,’ Hamza answered, “starved and drowned,
The curst one lies in death-like swound.
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