‘P,’ answered he, shaking his head.

The emperor lay pale and cold in his gorgeous bed, the courtiers thought he was dead, and they all went off to pay their respects to their new emperor.  The 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 sang about the quiet churchyard, when the roses bloom, where the elder flower scents the air, and where the fresh grass is ever moistened anew by the tears of the mourner.  This song brought to Death a longing for his own garden, and, like a cold grey mist, he passed out of the window.