At times a dull and heavy thud, followed by a distant roar, boomed upon the silence as the ground swell of the sea outside rolled upon the shallow beach telling of some far-off storm away down channel.
In that sequestered nook and sheltered creek all was still save for the birds and the children, the chatter of the women, or the occasional remarks of the men.
It was a lovely autumn day, and the warmth of the sun was considerable on that southerly sloping bank. The golden shadows of the oak trees were mirrored in the glass-like water, and the distorted shadow of the heron came wavering across the channel in the eddies caused by its own beak. No sound could be heard from the far-reaching forest behind. There all was silent, mysterious, and profound.
There is no mystery so profound as the depth of a vast forest. The occasional rustle of a leaf flickering to the ground, the absolute silence, the dim glories of the misty blue vistas, athwart which a ray of sunlight falls upon some gnarled and twisted branch. That which is seen as well as that which is not seen alike serve to enhance the awe.
"There is one thing the Saxons can't do," said brother Corman, as he neatly fitted a new plank into the bilge of the boat, which had become leaky and was cracked from her heavy bumping on the Pole sand at the entrance to the harbour.
"What's that?" said Beornwulf.
"Why, they can't make those light fishing boats which the Wealas, as thou callest them, make. What sayest thou to a boat that one can fish from with ease, then paddle ashore, and on getting out can put upon one's back and carry home?"
"Oh, I wish I had a boat like that!" cried Wulfstan; "how are they made so light? What are they made of?"
"Thou couldest make one if thou mindest to, Wulf; only patience is needful."
"Could I? Dost really think I could? Then I could go out fishing without asking any one!" cried Wulfstan, delighted, who already in his imagination saw endless lines of fish coming ashore. "When shall we make it, Corman?"