COMMODUS & THE WOOING OF MALKATOON (Illustrated). Lew Wallace

At sight of Othman in the vale below,

       And shook his hand at him, and said aloud:

       "'Thou black-browed son of Islam, go thy way,

       For 'tis the fool's, and thou becomest it,

       A torch not more the night. Thou not to know

       That every sense we have is but a gate,

       An airy gate on downy hinges hung,

       For Love to come and go! Keep the way; pave

       It end to end with fantasies in rhyme,

       And dreams of Allah, and Edebali,

       And Malkatoon, and, with thy comrade fools,

       Chatter and sing, and plague the fainting sky

       With beat of drums and flaunt of flags; nor leave

       Behind the combings of the Wilderness

       Thou callest thy Tribe. And I will to the cave;

       And should the Dervish give the girl to me,

       Vex not the sun or moon or tender stars

       With antics of a child. I had not loved

       Her but for thee.'

       "Then to the cave he sped

       With might of galloping,

       "A thousand knights

       In gold-gilt steel, and girt with belts of gold,

       And trebly proud of azure blades, new moons

       In curvature, and casting brightness far

       As stars ablaze in cold Caucasian skies,

       Held all the space about the beaten road

       Uptrending to the leafy door; their tents

       Enwhitened linen circling one of silk

       Capacious as a field, and dyed in green

       And purple, graceful as a peacock's neck,

       And full as iridescent; and the air

       Above the camp was glorified with flags

       And bannerets, one richer than the rest,

       And heavy with symbolic broidery,

       Bespeaking old Iran. Yet, passion-mad,

       The Lord of Eskischeer thrust through the maze

       Of martial splendor.