All the court burst into a rude laugh, and the child fled away crying, without trying to finish her speech.  The chief minister gave a private order that she and her disastrous donkey be flogged beyond the precincts of the palace and commanded to come within them no more.

Then the trial of the birds was resumed.  The two birds sang their best, but the scepter lay motionless in the king’s hand.  Hope died slowly out in the breasts of all.  An hour went by; two hours, still no decision.  The day waned to its close, and the waiting multitudes outside the palace grew crazed with anxiety and apprehension.  The twilight came on, the shadows fell deeper and deeper.  The king and his court could no longer see each other’s faces.  No one spoke—­none called for lights.  The great trial had been made; it had failed; each and all wished to hide their faces from the light and cover up their deep trouble in their own hearts.

Finally-hark!  A rich, full strain of the divinest melody streamed forth from a remote part of the hall the nightingale’s voice!

“Up!” shouted the king, “let all the bells make proclamation to the people, for the choice is made and we have not erred.  King, dynasty, and nation are saved.  From henceforth let the nightingale be honored throughout the land forever.  And publish it among all the people that whosoever shall insult a nightingale, or injure it, shall suffer death.  The king hath spoken.”

All that little world was drunk with joy.  The castle and the city blazed with bonfires all night long, the people danced and drank and sang; and the triumphant clamor of the bells never ceased.

From that day the nightingale was a sacred bird.  Its song was heard in every house; the poets wrote its praises; the painters painted it; its sculptured image adorned every arch and turret and fountain and public building.  It was even taken into the king’s councils; and no grave matter of state was decided until the soothsayers had laid the thing before the state nightingale and translated to the ministry what it was that the bird had sung about it.

II

The young king was very fond of the chase.  When the summer was come he rode forth with hawk and hound, one day, in a brilliant company of his nobles.  He got separated from them by and by, in a great forest, and took what he imagined a neat cut, to find them again; but it was a mistake.  He rode on and on, hopefully at first, but with sinking courage finally.  Twilight came on, and still he was plunging through a lonely and unknown land.  Then came a catastrophe.  In the dim light he forced his horse through a tangled thicket overhanging a steep and rocky declivity.  When horse and rider reached the bottom, the former had a broken neck and the latter a broken leg.  The poor little king lay there suffering agonies of pain, and each hour seemed a long month to him.  He kept his ear strained to hear any sound that might promise hope of rescue; but he heard no voice, no sound of horn or bay of hound.  So at last he gave up all hope, and said, “Let death come, for come it must.”