But when Cuchulain came to the ford, it was his turn to choose the weapons for the day. And they fought all the morning. By midday the anger of each was hot upon him, and Cuchulain leaped up onto the bosses of Ferdiad's shield, but Ferdiad tossed him from him like a bird on the brink of the ford, or as foam is thrown from a wave. Then did Cuchulain leap with the quickness of the wind and the lightness of a swallow, and lit on the boss of Ferdiad's shield. But Ferdiad shook his shield and cast Cuchulain from him. Cuchulain's anger came on him like flame; and so close was the fight that their shields were broken and loosened, that their spears were bent from their points to their hilts; and so close was the fight that they drove the river from its bed, and that their horses broke away in fear and madness. Then Ferdiad gave Cuchulain a stroke of the sword and hid it in his body. And Cuchulain took his spear, Gae Bulg, cast it at Ferdiad, and it passed through his body so that the point could be seen. "O Cuchulain," cried Ferdiad, when Gae Bulg pierced him, "it was not right that I should fall by your hand! My end is come, my ribs will not hold my heart. I have not done well in the battle." Then Cuchulain ran toward him and put his two arms about him, and laid him by the ford northward. And he began to keen and lament: "What are joy and shouting to me now? It is to madness I am driven after the thing I have done. O Ferdiad, there will never be born among the men of Connaught who will do deeds equal to yours! "O Ferdiad, you were betrayed to your death! You to die, I to be living. Our parting for ever is a grief for ever! We gave our word that to the end of time we would not go against each other. "Dear to me was your beautiful ruddiness, dear to me your comely form, dear to me your clear gray eye, dear your wisdom and your talk, and dear to me our friendship! "It was not right you to fall by my hand; it was not a friendly ending. My grief! I loved the friend to whom I have given a drink of red blood. O Ferdiad, this thing will hang over me for ever! Yesterday you were strong as a mountain. And now there is nothing but a shadow!" IV CÆDMON THE COWHERD A very great modern poet, Coleridge, who wrote "The Ancient Mariner," said that prose was words in their best order, but that _poetry was the best words in their best order_. This is a simple and good definition of poetry. Yet there is even more than best words in their best order in the room beyond the door over which is written _Poetry_. Perhaps, however, beautiful words in their best order would always teach us to find what is beautiful and to love the good. I do not know. Do you?