The two men sit down and talk.  Geissler is in the right mood today; the spirit moves him, and he talks all the time, only pausing when Sivert puts in a word or so in answer, and then going on again.  “A mighty lucky thing—­can’t help saying it.  Everything turned out just as I wanted all the way up, and now meeting you here and saving all the journey to Sellanraa.  All well at home, what?”

“All well, and thank you kindly.”

“Got up that hayloft yet, over the cowshed?”

“Ay, ’tis done.”

“Well, well—­I’ve a heap of things to look to, almost more than I can manage.  Look at where we’re sitting now, for instance.  What d’you say to that, Sivert man?  Ruined city, eh?  Men gone about to build it all against their nature and well-being.  Properly speaking, it’s all my fault from the start—­that is to say, I’m a humble agent in the workings of fate.  It all began when your father picked up some bits of stone up in the hills, and gave you to play with when you were a child.  That was how it started.  I knew well enough those bits of stone were worth exactly as much as men would give for them, no more; well and good, I set a price on them myself, and bought them.  Then the stones passed from hand to hand, and did no end of damage.  Time went on.  And now, a few days ago, I came up here again, and what for, d’you think?  To buy those stones back again!”

Geissler stops for a moment, and looks at Sivert.  Then suddenly he glances at the sack, and asks:  “What’s that you’re carrying?”

“Goods,” says Sivert.  “We’re taking them down to the village.”

Geissler does not seem interested in the answer; has not even heard it, like as not.  He goes on: 

“Buy them back again—­yes.  Last time, I let my son manage the deal; he sold them then.  Young fellow about your own age, that’s all about him.  He’s the lightning in the family, I’m more a sort of fog.  Know what’s the right thing to do, but don’t do it.  But he’s the lightning—­and he’s entered the service of industry for the time being.  ’Twas he sold for me last time.  I’m something and he’s not, he’s only the lightning; quick to act, modern type.  But the lightning by itself’s a barren thing.  Look at you folk at Sellanraa, now; looking up at blue peaks every day of your lives; no new-fangled inventions about that, but fjeld and rocky peaks, rooted deep in the past—­but you’ve them for companionship.  There you are, living in touch with heaven and earth, one with them, one with all these wide, deep-rooted things.  No need of a sword in your hands, you go through life bareheaded, barehanded, in the midst of a great kindliness.  Look, Nature’s there, for you and yours to have and enjoy.  Man and Nature don’t bombard each other, but agree; they don’t compete, race one against the other, but go together.  There’s you Sellanraa folk, in all this, living there.  Fjeld and forest, moors and meadow, and sky and stars—­oh, ’tis not poor and sparingly counted out, but