just inside the gates. Huge kettles of porridge and gruel were prepared for the men, and all the clothing that could be spared was turned over to them. The servants continually gathered round their camp to listen to their tales of what they had passed through. Not all could talk, however. Some were too listless to answer when spoken to; they seemed hardly to know who they were or where they were going.
There was great consternation and wonder over these men who had become so changed. Reports of them spread far and wide, and people came long distances to see them.
"That one, they tell me, is the son of Göran Persa," said a stranger who had stood a long while regarding the poor wretches. "But I knew Göran Persa's son; he was a fine lad; there's not a feature the same."
One day a poor widow came wandering to Mårbacka. She was from a little backwoods croft away up north, where, in a perpetual struggle with hunger and want, she managed to sustain life in her body.
"Is there any one among ye by the name of Börje Knutsson?" she inquired, gazing anxiously at the sick yeomen.
No one answered. The men sat on the ground with their legs drawn up, their chins resting on their knees. They would sit like that for hours without moving.
"If there's any one here named Börje Knutsson he must make himself known," said the widow, "for he's my son."
