Finally one old man, who was nearly a hundred, hobbled up to Ingmar, and sat down on the ground quite close to him.  It seemed to be the only place where he could be at ease, for there he remained quietly, resting his shaky old hands on the crook of his cane.  And as soon as old Lisa and Cowhouse Martha saw where Pickaxe Bengt had taken refuge, they, too, came tottering up, and sat down at Ingmar’s feet.  They did not speak to him, but somehow they must have had a vague idea that he would be able to protect them—­he who was now Ingmar Ingmarsson.

Ingmar no longer kept his eyes closed.  He stood looking down at them, as if he were counting up all the years and all the trials through which they had lived, serving his people; and it seemed to him that his first duty was to see that they be allowed to live out their days in their old home.  He glanced out over the yard, caught the eye of Strong Ingmar, and nodded to him, significantly.

Whereupon Strong Ingmar, without a word, went straight to the house.  He passed through the living-room to the inner room, and stationed himself by the door, where he waited for an opportunity to deliver his message.

The pastor was standing in the middle of the room talking to Karin and Halvor, who were sitting as stiff and motionless as a pair of mummies.  The manager from Bergsana was at the table looking confident, for he knew that he was in a position to outbid all the others.  The innkeeper from Karmsund was standing at the window, in such a fever of agitation that great beads of sweat came out on his forehead, and his hands shook.  Berger Sven Persson sat on the sofa at the far end of the room, twiddling his thumbs, his hands clasped over his stomach, his big commanding face impassive.

The pastor was done talking, and Halvor glanced over at Karin for advice; but she sat as if in a trance, staring blankly at the floor.

Then Halvor turned to the pastor, and said:  “Karin and I have got to consider that we are going to a strange land, and that we and the brethren must live on the money we can get for the farm.  We’ve been told that the fare alone to Jerusalem will cost us fifteen thousand kroner.  And then, afterward, we must get a house and keep ourselves in food and clothes.  So we can hardly afford to give anything away.”

“It’s unreasonable of you people to expect Karin and Halvor to sell the farm for a mere song, just because you don’t want the Company to have it!” said the manager.  “It seems to me that it would be well to accept my offer at once, if for no other reason than to put an end to all these useless arguments.”

“Yes,” Karin spoke up, “we’d better take the highest bid.”

But the parson was not so easily beaten!  When it came to a question of handling a worldly matter he always knew just what to say.  Now he was the man, and not the preacher.

“I’m sure that Karin and Halvor care enough about this old farm to want to sell to some person who would keep up the property, even if they have to take a couple of thousand kroner less,” he said.