Then there sounded close by the window the most lovely song.  It was the little live Nightingale, that sat outside on a spray.  It had heard of the Emperor’s need, and had come to sing to him of trust and hope.  And as it sang the spectres grew paler and paler; the blood ran more and more quickly through the Emperor’s weak limbs, and Death himself listened, and said:—­

“Go on, little Nightingale, go on!”

“But will you give me that splendid golden sword?  Will you give me that rich banner?  Will you give me the Emperor’s crown?”

And Death gave up each of these treasures for a song.  And the Nightingale sang on and on; it sang of the quiet churchyard where the white roses grow, where the elder-blossom smells sweet, and where the fresh grass is wet with the tears of mourners.  Then Death felt a longing to see his garden, and floated out at the window in the form of a cold, white mist.

“Thanks! thanks!” said the Emperor.  “You heavenly little bird!  I know you well.  I drove you from my land and empire, and yet you have charmed away the evil faces from my bed, and driven Death from my heart!  How can I pay you?”

“You have paid me!” replied the Nightingale.  “I drew tears from your eyes, the first time I sang—­I shall never forget that.  Those are the jewels that make a singer’s heart glad.  But now sleep and grow fresh and strong again.  I will sing you something.”

And it sang, and the Emperor fell into a sweet sleep.  Ah! how mild and refreshing that sleep was!  The sun shone upon him through the windows, when he awoke strong and sound.  Not one of his servants had yet come back, for they all thought that he was dead; but the Nightingale still sat beside him and sang.

“You must always stay with me,” said the Emperor.  “You shall sing as you please; and I’ll break the toy bird into a thousand pieces.”

“Not so,” replied the Nightingale.  “It did well as long as it could; keep it as you have done till now.  I cannot build my nest in the palace to dwell in it, but let me come when I feel the wish; then I will sit in the evening on the spray yonder by the window, and sing for you, so that you may be glad and thoughtful at once.  I will sing of those who are happy and of those who suffer.  I will sing of good and of evil that remain hidden round about you.  The little singing bird flies far around, to the poor fisherman, to the peasant’s roof, to every one who dwells far away from you and from your court.  I love your heart more than your crown, and yet the crown has an air of sanctity about it.  I will come and sing to you—­but one thing you must promise me.”

“Everything!” said the Emperor; and he stood there in his royal robes, which he had put on himself, and pressed the sword which was heavy with gold to his heart.

“One thing I beg of you:  tell no one that you have a little bird who tells you everything.  Then all will go well.”