In honour of the Major they first essayed the stirring Finnish martial hymn, the "March of the Björneborgers." Fru Lagerlöf struck the opening chords, and the orchestra followed as best it could. It was a clang and a din that took the house by storm.
They did their best, all of them. Sexton Melanoz, Jan Asker, and Herr Tyberg played with a certain assurance, but the Major frequently lagged behind and the Lieutenant put in a few haphazard trills, due in part to the freakish behaviour of his "nightingale" and in part to a mischievous desire to throw the others out of time.
When they had played the march through once they were so enlivened and interested they wanted to go over it again, to get it quite perfect. The Major blew and tooted till his eyes were red and his cheeks distended, as if ready to split. Obviously, he was not as proficient at the horn as he had made himself out, for he did not play in time even on second trial.
Of a sudden he jumped up and hurled the French horn across the room toward the chimney corner with such force that it came near crushing Colour-Sergeant von Wachenfeldt's most sensitive toe.
"Hang it all!" he shouted. "I'm not going to sit here and spoil the Björneborgers' March.… Play on, you who can!"
The others were a bit disconcerted, naturally, but they took up the march for the third time. And now the Major sang, Sons of a race that bled. He carried
