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But not one returned to Stamboul.
In sore straits was the Sultan,
For his best knights were gone from him,
The black Arab had slain them all.
Nor was that thing the most grievous,
For now the black Arab made ready
To go forth from his white tower by the sea-shore. 40
He put on him fine raiment,
And girded on his rich-wrought sabre,
And made ready his grey Arab mare;
About her he made fast the sevenfold saddle-girth,
And bridled her with a gilded bridle;
He made fast his tent to the saddle-bag on one side,
And on the other side he hanged his heavy mace;
He flung him upon his horse's back,
And slung his battle-spear behind him,
And straightway went to white Stamboul. 50
When he was come before the gate of Stamboul,
He struck his spear into the ground before the gate,
And to the spear he tied his Arab steed.
Then he pitched his white tent,
And on Stamboul he laid a tax
That each night they should give him a barren sheep,
A baking of white bread,
A cask of strong rakia,
Two casks of red wine,
And a fair damsel. 60
And she served him with red wine,
And at night he kissed her fair face.
And each day he sent a damsel to the land of Talia,
And thereby gained gold out of measure.
And so for three months he continued.
And a greater shame the Sultan suffered,
For the Moor bridled his slender mare,
Through white Stamboul city he urged her,
And went straightway to the Sultan's palace.
With a loud voice he hailed the Sultan: 70
