The others remained persistently silent, but not a word of what Olle of Maggebysäter said was lost on them.
"The leaves of the trees in that land, they're nothin' but gold," said the poor old man. "There you don't have to do day's work at a manor, you've only to go to the woods and pull off an armful of leaves, and then you can buy yourself whatever you want. Blow me, if I don't move over there, old as I be!"
They were now in a mellow mood, all the men in the servants' hall. They saw, as it were before their eyes, that land where you tap rum from the rocks and pick gold off the trees.
The farm-bell rang. Rest-time was up. They must again go out into the wet and cold.
Lars of London returned to his plow, Magnus of Vienna to his; Sven of Paris, Johan of Prague, and the farmboy went back to digging potatoes. Per of Berlin betook himself home to his cottage, the stableman had to go and chop the evening's firewood, and Olle of Maggebysäter, shouldering his sack of rye, limped off to the woods.
None of them looked as glum as they did half an hour ago. There was a little glint of light in their eyes. They all felt it was good to know of a land where rum flowed from the hills and the forests were of gold—even though it lay so far away they could never reach it.