“You may just as well turn back and go home again,” is Aronsen’s advice.

“We’re not doing that,” says Andresen, and packs up the coffee-pot.

Aronsen stares at the three of them in turn.  “You’re mad, then,” says he.

Look you, Andresen he cares little now for what his master that was can say; he’s master himself now, leader of an expedition equipped at his own expense for a journey to distant parts; ’twould lose him his prestige to turn back now where he is.

“Well, where will you go?” asks Aronsen irritably.

“Can’t say,” answers Andresen.  But he’s a notion of his own all the same, no doubt; thinking, maybe, of the natives, and coming down into the district three men strong, with glass beads and finger rings.  “We’ll be getting on,” says he to the rest.

Now, Aronsen had thought like enough to go farther up that morning, seeing he’d come so far, wanting, maybe, to see if all the place was quite deserted, if it could be true every man on the place was gone.  But seeing these pedlar-folk so set on going on, it hinders him, and he tells them again and again they’re mad to try.  Aronsen is furious himself, marches down in front of the caravan, turning round and shouting at them, barking at them, trying to keep them out of his district.  And so they come down to the huts in the mining centre.

A little town of huts, but empty and desolate.  Most of the tools and implements are housed under cover, but poles and planks, broken carts and cases and barrels, lie all about in disorder; here and there a notice on a door declares “No admittance.”

“There you are,” cries Aronsen.  “What did I say?  Not a soul in the place.”  And he threatens the caravan with disaster—­he will send for the Lensmand; anyway, he’s going to follow them every step now, and if he can catch them at any unlawful trading ’tis penal servitude and slavery, no mistake!

All at once somebody calls out for Sivert.  The place is not altogether dead, after all, not utterly deserted; here is a man standing beckoning at the corner of a house.  Sivert trundles over with his load, and sees at once who it is—­Geissler.

“Funny meeting you here,” says Geissler.  His face is red and flourishing, but his eyes apparently cannot stand the glare of spring, he is wearing smoked glasses.  He talks as brilliantly as ever.  “Luckiest thing in the world,” says he.  “Save me going all the way up to Sellanraa; and I’ve a deal to look after.  How many settlers are there in the Almenning now?”

“Ten.”

“Ten new holdings.  I’ll agree.  I’m satisfied.  But ’tis two-and-thirty-thousand men of your father’s stamp the country wants.  Ay, that’s what I say, and I mean it; I’ve reckoned it out.”

“Sivert, are you coming on?” The caravan is waiting.

Geissler hears, and calls back sharply:  “No.”

“I’ll come on after,” calls Sivert, and sets down his load.