r 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.

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 E