BENEATH a palm-tree by a clear cool spring God's Prophet, Mahomet, lay slumbering, Till, roused by chance, he saw before him stand A foeman, Durther, scimitar in hand. The chieftain bade the startled sleeper rise; And with a flame of triumph in his eyes, "Who now can save thee, Mahomet?" he cried. "God," said the Prophet, "God, my friend and guide." Awe-struck the Arab dropped his naked sword, Which, grasped by Mahomet, defied its lord: And, "Who can save thee now thy blade is won?" Exclaimed the Prophet. Durther answered, "None!" Then spake the victor: "Though thy hands are red With guiltless blood unmercifully shed, I spare thy life, I give thee back thy steel: Henceforth, compassion for the helpless feel." And thus the twain, unyielding foes of yore, Clasped hands in token that their feud was o'er. |