“I haven’t much more time,” said Lasse, raising himself on his elbows.
“Perhaps not, you and I, for those who start on the pilgrimage must die in the desert! But for that reason we are God’s chosen people, we poor folk. And Pelle, he will surely behold the Promised Land!”
“Now you ought to come in, father, and see how we have arranged it,” said Pelle.
Lasse stood up wearily and went with them. They had furnished one of Sort’s empty rooms with Lasse’s things. It looked quite cozy.
“We thought that you would live here until Pelle is getting on well ‘over there,’” said Sort. “No, you don’t need to thank me! I’m delighted to think I shall have society, as you may well understand.”
“The good God will repay it to you,” said Lasse, with a quavering voice. “We poor folk have no one but Him to rely on.”
Pelle could not rest, nor control his thoughts any longer; he must be off! “If you’ll give me what the fare comes to, as I’ve helped you,” he told Sort, “then I’ll start this evening….”
Sort gave him thirty kroner.
“That’s the half of what we took. There’s not so much owing to me,” said Pelle. “You are the master and had the tools and everything.”
“I won’t live by the work of other hands—only by that of my own,” said Sort, and he pushed the money across to Pelle. “Are you going to travel just as you stand?”