the pools you could see the wave thrown up by the trouts as they charged
hither and yon, and the pools were joined to each other--except in flood
time, when all was one brown rush--by sheets of thin broken water that
poured themselves chuckling round the darkness of the next bend.

This was one of the children's most secret hunting-grounds, and their
particular friend, old Hobden the hedger, had shown them how to use it.
Except for the click of a rod hitting a low willow, or a switch and
tussle among the young ash-leaves as a line hung up for the minute,
nobody in the hot pasture could have guessed what game was going on
among the trouts below the banks.

'We've got half-a-dozen,' said Dan, after a warm, wet hour. 'I vote we
go up to Stone Bay and try Long Pool.'

Una nodded--most of her talk was by nods--and they crept from the gloom
of the tunnels towards the tiny weir that turns the brook into the
mill-stream. Here the banks are low and bare, and the glare of the
afternoon sun on the Long Pool below the weir makes your eyes ache.

When they were in the open they nearly fell down with astonishment. A
huge grey horse, whose tail-hairs crinkled the glassy water, was
drinking in the pool, and the ripples about his muzzle flashed like
melted gold. On his back sat an old, white-haired man dressed in a loose
glimmery gown of chain-mail. He was bare-headed, and a nut-shaped iron
helmet hung at his saddle-bow. His reins were of red leather five or six
inches deep, scalloped at the edges, and his high padded saddle with its
red girths was held fore and aft by a red leather breastband and
crupper.