lackeys ran off to talk matters over, and the chambermaids
gave a great coffee-party. Cloth had been laid down in all the rooms and
corridors so as to deaden the sound of footsteps, so it was very, very
quiet. But the emperor was not dead yet. He lay stiff and pale in the
gorgeous bed with its velvet hangings and heavy golden tassels. There
was an open window high above him, and the moon streamed in upon the
emperor, and the artificial bird beside him.

The poor emperor could hardly breathe, he seemed to have a weight on his
chest, he opened his eyes, and then he saw that it was Death sitting
upon his chest, wearing his golden crown. In one hand he held the
emperor's golden sword, and in the other his imperial banner. Round
about, from among the folds of the velvet hangings peered many curious
faces: some were hideous, others gentle and pleasant. They were all the
emperor's good and bad deeds, which now looked him in the face when
Death was weighing him down.

'Do you remember that?' whispered one after the other; 'Do you remember
this?' and they told him so many things that the perspiration poured
down his face.

'I never knew that,' said the emperor. 'Music, music, sound the great
Chinese drums!' he cried, 'that I may not hear what they are saying.'
But they went on and on, and Death sat nodding his head, just like a
Chinaman, at everything that was said.

'Music, music!' shrieked the emperor. 'You precious little golden bird,
sing, sing! I have loaded you with precious stones, and even hung my own
golden slipper round your neck; sing, I tell you, sing!'

But the bird stood silent; there was nobody to wind it up, so of course
it could not go. Death continued to fix the great empty sockets of his
eyes upon him, and all was silent, so terribly silent.

Suddenly, close to the window, there was a burst of lovely song; it was
the living nightingale, perched on a branch outside. It had heard of the
emperor's need, and had come to bring comfort and hope to him. As it
sang the faces round became fainter and fainter, and the blood coursed
with fresh vigour in the emperor's veins and through his feeble limbs.
Even Death himself listened to the song and said, 'Go on, little
nightingale, go on!'

'Yes, if you give me the gorgeous golden sword; yes, if you give me the
imperial banner; yes, if you give me the emperor's crown.'

And Death gave back each of these treasures for a song, and the
nightingale went on singing. It