When they had
finished, Edith went up to him and was quite
effusive in her expressions of gratitude.
"I am sure we ought all to be very grateful
to you, Mr. Birch," she said, "and I, for my
part, can assure you that I am."
"Grateful? Why?" demanded Halfdan,
looking quite unhappy.
"For singing OUR national songs, of course.
Now, won't you sing one of your own, please?
We should all be so delighted to hear how a
Swedish--or Norwegian, is it?--national song
sounds."
"Yes, Mr. Birch, DO sing a Swedish song,"
echoed several voices.
They, of course, did not even remotely suspect
their own cruelty. He had, in his enthusiasm
for the day allowed himself to forget that
he was not made of the same clay as they were,
that he was an exile and a stranger, and must
ever remain so, that he had no right to share
their joy in the blessing of liberty. Edith had
taken pains to dispel the happy illusion, and had
sent him once more whirling toward his cold
native Pole. His passion came near choking
him, and, to conceal his impetuous emotion, he
flung himself down on the piano-stool, and struck
some introductory chords with perhaps a little
superfluous emphasis. Suddenly his voice burst
out into the Swedish national anthem, "Our
Land, our Land, our Fatherland," and the air
shook and palpitated with strong martial melody.
His indignation, his love and his misery,
imparted strength to his voice, and its occasional
tremble in the PIANO passages was something
more than an artistic intention.
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