The Emperor jumped at once out of bed, and had his own doctor called; but what could he do?  Then they sent for a watchmaker, and after a good deal of talking and looking, he got the bird into some sort of order; but he said that it must be looked after a good deal, for the barrels were worn, and he could not put new ones in in such a manner that the music would go.  There was a great to-do; only once in a year did they dare to let the bird sing, and that was almost too much.  But then the Play-master made a little speech, full of heavy words, and said this was just as good as before—­and so, of course, it was as good as before.

III—­THE REAL NIGHTINGALE AGAIN

Five years had gone by, and a real grief came upon the whole nation.  The Chinese were really fond of their Emperor, and now he was sick, and could not, it was said, live much longer.  Already a new Emperor had been chosen, and the people stood out in the street and asked the Cavalier how their old Emperor did.

“P!” said he, and shook his head.

Cold and pale lay the Emperor in his great, gorgeous bed; the whole court thought him dead, and each one ran to pay respect to the new ruler.  The chamberlains ran out to talk it over, and the ladies’-maids had a great coffee party.  All about, in all the halls and passages, cloth had been laid down so that no one could be heard go by, and therefore it was quiet there, quite quiet.  But the Emperor was not dead yet:  stiff and pale he lay on the gorgeous bed with the long velvet curtains and the heavy gold tassels; high up, a window stood open, and the moon shone in upon the Emperor and the toy bird.

The poor Emperor could scarcely breathe; it was just as if something lay upon his breast.  He opened his eyes, and then he saw that it was Death who sat upon his breast, and had put on his golden crown, and held in one hand the Emperor’s sword, and in the other his beautiful banner.  And all around, from among the folds of the splendid velvet curtains, strange heads peered forth; a few very ugly, the rest quite lovely and mild.  These were all the Emperor’s bad and good deeds, that stood before him now that Death sat upon his heart.

“Do you remember this?” whispered one to the other, “Do you remember that?” and then they told him so much that the sweat ran from his forehead.

“I did not know that!” said the Emperor.  “Music! music! the great Chinese drum!” he cried, “so that I need not hear all they say!”

And they kept on, and Death nodded like a Chinaman to all they said.

“Music! music!” cried the Emperor.  “You little precious golden bird, sing, sing!  I have given you gold and costly presents; I have even hung my golden slipper around your neck—­now, sing!”

But the bird stood still,—­no one was there to wind him up, and he could not sing without that; but Death kept on staring at the Emperor with his great hollow eyes, and it was quiet, fearfully quiet.