At a gallop the horses draw the chariot in a clattering blur past the assembled warriors. Cú Chulainn is roaring. This is the sound which is like thunder. His lips are drawn back. It is a wild cry. In his eyes elation and fury boil together, so that it is clear that he cannot tell who is a friend or who is an enemy. He jumps from the chariot and throws his weapons into the mud, and stands before the king’s picked troop. He is terrible.