floated in at the open window. It was the
voice of the real Nightingale as it sat upon a bough outside. It had
heard the Emperor was ill, and had come back to comfort him and fill
him with hope.

And as its song gained strength and rose and fell in delicious trills,
the ghostly faces faded away and the warm life blood began to flow
anew in the Emperor's veins. Even Death raised his head and said, "Go
on, go on, little Nightingale."

"Ah, but you will give me the Emperor's royal crown and his sword and
jewelled sceptre, if I do?" asked the bird.

And Death exchanged each of these treasures for a song, and the
Nightingale went on singing--of a peaceful churchyard, heavy with the
scent of roses and elder blossom, where the grass lay thick with the
dew of many tears shed by mortals over dear ones lying sleeping there.
Then Death was filled with a yearning to be in his own garden, and
passed like a gray mist out of the open window.

"Deep, deep thanks I give you," said the Emperor. "Merciful little
bird! I know you again. It was you I banished from my presence and my
kingdom. And yet, you have charmed the evil spectres from my bed and
Death from my heart. How can I ever repay you?"

"I am already rewarded in that I drew tears from your eyes when first
I sang to you. Those tears were jewels to crown the heart of any
singer, and I shall never forget them. I will sing you to sleep now, a
sleep from which you will awake fresh and strong again."

And the Emperor fell into a sweet, refreshing slumber, so deep and
peaceful that he awoke strong and well in the warm sunlight. None of
the courtiers were by him, for all believed he was dead, only the
Nightingale was still singing a gentle, sweet song.

"You must never leave me," the Emperor said; "you shall only sing when
you desire, and I will break the artificial bird into a million
pieces."

"No, spare it," said the Nightingale. "It did its best as long as it
was able, so keep it as before. I cannot build my nest within the
castle, but I will often come to you at evening and sing, on the bough
outside the window, songs that will make you glad, and at the same
time sweetly melancholy. I will sing of happiness and sorrow, of the
goodness and wickedness that lie close around you. The singing bird
loves the fisherman's hut, the peasant's cot, and all that is far
removed from palace and court. But I love your soul more than your
crown. I will fly to you and sing my songs, but y